











ELEONORA DUSE: 
The Story of Her Life 








* 





DUSE, OF THE BEAUTIFUL HANDS, AT 45. 


Frontispiece. 


ELEONORA DUSE: 
The Story of Her Life 


By 


JEANNE BORDEUX 


WITH 26 ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEw YORK: 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 


1925 





TO THE MEMORY OF 
ELEONORA DUSE: 


WOMAN OF INFINITE PITY; 
DIVINE PRECEPTRESS OF DRAMATIC ART. 





PREFACE 


DuRING the three months that I have been compiling 
and writing the life of the late Eleonora Duse I have 
so absolutely lived and suffered with her that my 
vast admiration has become a reverent love, and I 
believe that no one in the world ever succeeded in 
knowing her as I did. . . . Each one of her friends, 
intimates and actors saw her in a different light ; 
I saw her in all those lights merged into one, as from 
birth she unfalteringly followed her destiny, mag- 
nificently, humbly fulfilling the mission for which she 
was sent into the world. 

My first hope was to translate the memoirs of 
the Grand Actress, as she herself promised me I should, 
if she ever wrote them, and, failing to, she gave me 
the permission to some day write, in English, a simple 
story of her life. And that is all this book pretends 
to be: the simple, true story of Eleonora Duse’s life 
from birth to death. 

I wish to thank all those who have so kindly 
helped me in my difficult task, particularly Signora 
Enif Robert, M. Edouard Schneider, M. Jean Philippe 
Worth, Caveliere Cesare Levi, Professor Edgardo 
Maddalena, Signor Camillo Antona-Traversi, and Signor 
Mazzanti, who supplied me with the entire foreign 
schedule; and many, many others in private life 
who have asked me not to mention their names, as 
they would mean nothing to the public. 

JEANNE BORDEUX. 
Paris, Sept. 2nd, 1924. 


vii 





CONTENTS 


PART I 


Ancestors—Family—Birth—Early Life—First Stage Ap- 
pearance—Career—First Mention of Talent—Continued 
Successes—Marriage—First Tour in South America 
—Return to Italy—Difficulties—Life Until 1890 _ = - 


PART II 


The Triumph at Vienna, 1892—Other European Triumphs 
—Berlin—London—New York—Meeting with d’An- 
nunzio—The Woman in Her Rare Moments of Ease— 
The d’Annunzio Propaganda—Other Successes Abroad 
—Paris—Life and Work Until the Closing at Vienna, 
February, 1909 - - - - - 


PART III 


The Simple Life—Various Performances—The War— 
Financial Losses—Thought of Returning to the Stage 
—Plans—The Return—Touring in Italy—Decision to 
go to England—Vienna— United States > - 


PART IV 


- The Departure for New York—Touring the United States 
—Iness—Death at Pittsburg, Pa., U.S.A., April 21st, 
1924—Funeral in New York—The Arrival in Italy 
—Her Last Journey—Her Final Resting-place - 


PAGE 


15 


78 


205 


268 





LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Duse, of the Beautiful Hands, at 45 


Luigi Duse - - : 
Alessandro Duse - ~ - 
Eleonora Duse and Her Mother - 
Eleonora Duse - | - - 
As “ Teresa Raquin”  - - 
Flavio And6é - - - 
Arrigo Boito - - - 
In “‘ The Ideal Wife” - - 
At Vienna, 1892 - - - 
The Duse at 25 - - ~ 
As “ Mirandalina ”’ - - 
Eleonora Duse with Lembach Baby 
Gabriele d’Annunzio - - 
“ La Porziuncola ”’ - - 
Villa Capponcina : - 
As “ Cleopatra ”’ - - 
The Duse at 30 - - 
M. Jean Philippe Worth - - 
Eleonora Duse at 45 - - 
Eleonora Duse at 50 - - 
Bust of Madame Ada Rubinstein 
Memo Benassi_ - - : 
“ The Closed Door ”’ - ~ 
Casa Duse at Asolo - - 
Eleonora Duse’s Last Resting-place 
xi 


- Frontispiece 
Facing Page 


16 
30 
30 
38 
38 
60 
70 
82 
82 
96 
96 
104 
118 
138 
138 
150 
150 
166 
200 
228 
266 
282 
292 
292 
302 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of 
Her Life 


PART I 


Ancestors—Family—Birth—Early Life—First Stage Appearance— 
Career—First Mention of Talent—Continued Successes— 
Marriage—First Tour in South America—Return to Italy— 
Difficulties—Life Until 1890. 


A MOMENTARY halt of a cheap theatrical road company, 
early in the month of October, 1859, caused the little 
town of Vigevano to become many years later famous 
as the birthplace of the greatest actress of the twentieth 
century. 

Eleonora Duse was not born at Vigevano, however, 
but in a third-class railway carriage between Venice 
and Vigevano, as the little company of which her 
father was manager, or leading man, had closed 
their season at Venice the evening of October 2nd, and 
were travelling by night to Vigevano, where they were 
Opening a short season on the evening of the third. 

A third-class railway carriage was not an ordinary 
thing in those days in Italy, and certainly could not 
have been a place of any great comfort, or exactly,the 
setting for a birth. ... No doctor, no nurse, no 
experienced hands to take the new-born baby, no 
dainty clothes waiting to cover the tiny form ; nothing 
dear to the heart of even the most humble woman. 

In poverty, abject poverty, Eleonora Duse came 


into the world. 
13 





14 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


In 1912 a French paper, Comedia, published a 
very charming article, in which it was stated that 
Eleonora Duse was born in a train, and baptised at 
Chioggia, where an Austrian soldier, when she was 
brought into the Church, thinking that a religuia sacro 
was to take place, presented arms. G. Roland, who 
wrote the article, had found in the archives of the Parish 
Cathedral of St. Ambrogio, Vigevano, the register of 
the birth of the great actress—folio 116, births of 
1858 (some authorities insist upon 1859)—October 5th, 
at four o’clock in the afternoon, Signor Alessandro 
Duse, son of the late Luigi Duse, actor, presented a 
new-born baby of feminine sex, which he declared to 
be his daughter, and that of his legal wife, Angelica 
Cappeletto, living with him at Vigevano. The register 
affirms also that the child was born on October 3rd, 
at two o’clock in the morning. He gave her the names 
of Eleonora Guilia Amalia. The godfather was Enrico 
Duse, actor, and brother of Alessandro. . . . She 
was baptised by the farraco teologo, Carlo Pradis. 

The story of the Austrian soldier presenting arms 
cannot be true, as at that time there were no foreign 
soldiers in Vigevano. The city was then a part of 
the kingdom of Sardinia, and was the garrison of two 
regiments of Sardinian cavalry. 

That a soldier presented arms seems to have a 
certain foundation, for among the stage props a glass 
and cloth of gold case existed, and Alessandro Duse 
no doubt put the baby into that case in order to 
carry her with less difficulty, and the soldier on guard 
seeing the astonishing case believed it to be the ashes 
of some distinguished person and presented arms. 

True, or not true, the suggestion of tragedy remains, 
like the far-reaching shadow of coming events. 

After the baptism Alessandro took the baby back 
to her mother, and, as he laid her in his wife’s arms, he 
is believed to have told her that their child will one 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 15 


day be famous, that kings will bow down to her, for 
already the king’s army has presented arms. 

The mother did not live to see the fulfilment of the 
prophecy. 


Luigi Duse, the great-grandfather of Eleonora, was 
born in Chioggia, 1792, and was a dialect actor of 
sufficient merit and fame. He was the first of the 
Duse family to go on the stage. Before him the 
family had been distinguished in various occupations— 
trades, no doubt, though there exists no accurate 
records of the Duses before Luigi. 

At the old St. Samuele Theatre of Venice, Luigi 
Duse presented almost exclusively the Goldoni reper- 
toire. When, as frequently happened, his public tired 
of Goldoni, the good genial Duse, who was like a 
member of the family with his habitual public, imagined 
himself a new type for them, created something on 
the order of ‘‘ Meneghino”’ (Milanese), which was 
merely a new mask for his old familiar “‘ Giocometto.”’ 

From memoirs of some of the old regulars of the 
theatre the titles of various plays given by Luigi 
Duse can be found. The plays in those days changed, 
but the leading character of Giocometto remained. 
The greatest successes were: ‘‘ L’Imbrogio de le Tre 
Mugier,” “La Veneziana di Spirito,” “‘ I Due Gioco- 
metti.’”” These were merely evening expositions of 
the actualities of the day. 

George Sand, during her adventurous love-trip 
to Venice, had the opportunity of knowing Duse, and 
of interesting herself in his art—of which she speaks 
rather at length in her book “ L’Histoire de Ma 
wie?” 

Without any particular warning the capricious 
hand of Fortune turned, and Duse was forced to leave 
his unstable public of Venice, and the St. Samuele 
Theatre, for Padua. . . . There he lived many years 





16 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in perfect peace, adored by his public—a very special 
public, composed of students, modest as to financial 
means, but exuberant in their admiration. 

In Padua his success was continuous and clamorous. 
He knew the agitation of Art, but never wealth ; and 
later, in that city, ruin came upon him. For political 
reasons he fell into disgrace, from which he was never 
able to rise again. 

After having tried his luck once more in Venice, 
he returned to Padua, where he died in 1854. 

With the celebrated, original and unfortunate 
‘““Giocometto,” the dynasty of the Duses in dramatic 
art began, which dynasty ends, unless some distant, 
and as yet unknown, cousin comes to the front, 
with the lamented Eleonora. 


Luigi Rasi—one-time leading man with Eleonora 
Duse—the beloved and much-regretted student of the 
lives of Italian actors, many years ago drew up a sort 
of genealogical tree of the Duse family. In Rasi’s 
tree there were all the brothers of her father, with 
their respective wives and children, which I have left 
out as it seems useless reading, being quite out of 
the story of the life that I am writing of. 

Dusz—Natale Duse, marriéd Teresa Sambo (non- 
professionals) ; their son, Luigi Duse, married Elisabetta 
Barbini of Padova. Their children were Eugenio Duse 
(prompter), Georgio Duse (character actor), Alessandro 
Duse (leading man), Enrico Duse (juvenile). 

All these four married actresses, whose children 
in turn went on the stage, some of them rising to a 
certain fame. 

Alessandro Duse married Angelica Cappeletto, of 
Vicenza; their child was—Eleonora. .. . 

As they say in Italian, “ figlio dell’arte’’ (child 
of the theatre), there could be only one future for 
the little girl born, one might almost say, “ between 









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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 17 


acts’: the life of the stage—with its misery, squalor, 
immorality. 

In England and the United States the theatres 
are modern, with necessary comforts; and even half 
a century ago they were no doubt quite possible ; 
but in Italy . 

To-day the best theatres, even in the big cities, 
behind the scenes are miserably poor places. The 
star's dressing-room a bare closet with a plain board 
table, two or three stiff chairs and a tiny iron wash- 
stand in a far corner, a few pegs to hang the costumes 
on, and that is all; From the conditions now, one 
can vaguely imagine what the houses, where a cheap 
road company played, were sixty years ago. 

Could a child born during a tedious railway journey 
ever know repose? Could the memory of her early 
surroundings ever be obliterated? Must not some 
of the shame and horror of the young mother during 
labour have left its mark on the child ? 7 

Added to the abnormal conditions of birth the 
Italian, impetuous, enthusiastic character and the 
third generation of artistic temperament, one can 
easily account for the weirdly mystic nature of the 
child, the strange unfathomable charm of the young 
woman, the restlessness and continued search after 
the unknown of the middle aged and the marvellous 
sweetness of the old woman. 

Like most children of the theatre, Eleonora Duse 
grew up on the stage, and as soon as she could walk 
and talk she began to act. At the age of four she 
played the part of Cosette, in a shortened version of 
Victor Hugo’s “Les Misérables,’ with her father’s 
company at Chioggia. 

At the tender age of four, when most children are 
being pampered and petted, she heard her first applause, 
saw the baby face changed by make-up, felt the 
responsibility of an expectant public. 

B 


18 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Poor little Cosette! When the shrew of the piece 
kicked her under the table, her mother, from the wings, 
tried to reassure the child. 

“Don’t cry, baby,” she would say, “nor be so 
afraid—you’re only being hurt to make them laugh.” 

And the poor little girl, try as she would, could 
never understand why one person must be hurt in 
order to make a lot of people laugh; nor why the 
amusement of one must be bought at the price of 
another’s pain. 

The nomadic life of the Italian actors in the ’sixties 
and ’seventies was such that even the poorest do not 
care to picture to-day. They knew no repose, vaca- 
tions were unheard of—for vacations might at any 
time be forced upon them by the failure of the company; 
so unless ill-luck came they never permitted them- 
selves a day far from the theatre. During the cold 
of winter, always in unheated cars, and through the 
long sweltering nights of the summer, they travelled 
from place to place, seldom complaining, giving each 
night their laughter, or tears, in exchange for the 
applause of the public. 

One evening, in a little town of the province of 
Veneto, Signora Duse, with her little daughter, was 
invited to the home of some well-to-do friends. . . 
In the warm sitting-room, which to little Eleonora 
seemed like a corner of Paradise, she looked with 
intense longing at a doll that belonged to the friend’s 
daughter. The lady, knowing that she had never 
possessed a doll, took her little girl aside and per- 
suaded her to make Eleonora, who was seven, a present 
of the toy. 

In ecstasy she took the modest doll, which appeared 
the most beautiful thing in the world to her. When 
she and her mother had left the hospitable home, and 
were again in the street on their way home, she 
suddenly thought of the poor, cold, dark, ordinary 








Eleonora Duse: .The Story of Her Life 19 


furnished room where they, with other actors, were 
forced to live. She turned back, ran quickly up the 
steps, followed by her mother, who had no idea of the 
child’s reason for the right-about-face. She rang the 
bell, ran into the sitting-room, and put the doll on 
the sofa where she had found it, then turning to the 
lady said : 

“T don’t want her to suffer from the cold, and I 
can’t keep her as you can, so—so I shall be happier 
knowing that she’s here!’’ Pale and serious, heroic- 
ally holding back the tears which the separation 
from the doll cost her, she went away. 

All her life Eleonora Duse was destined to suffer 
—not only for herself, but most of all for others. 


As time passed Alessandro Duse developed a certain 
passion for painting, though unfortunately painting 
was not attracted to him with the same passion. How- 
ever, there are in existence a few of his pictures, inferior 
works of art that bring no special credit or honour 
to his name. Yet certainly he who was the father 
of Eleonora had no need of other fame. For every 
Italian, and in fact every sensitive soul the world 
over, the knowledge that such a creature once lived 
is a reason for pride in the human race, a new faith 
in the ability of mankind to overcome self and, putting 
aside all obstacles, to climb to the topmost rung of 
the ladder. 

When a man has been responsible for the bringing 
of an Eleonora Duse into the world, he has given to 
the artistic and intellectual life, not only in his own 
country but in all countries, a greater contribution 
than if he had created a masterpiece of art—for his 
creature in turn creates infinite masterpieces. 

The first programme on which her name appears 
bears the date of 1863, and was for the Nobile Teatro, 
Zara. Her mother played small parts in the company, 





20 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


and her father also. The company was managed by 
her uncle, Enrico Duse. 

Chioggia, where she always liked to believe that 
she was born, perhaps because it was the place where 
the Duse family were best known, was where she made 
her first appearance on the stage. The little city was 
grateful to Alessandro Duse, and to show its gratitude 
gave the name of Eleonora Duse to one of the principal 
streets. Ermete Novelli in his ‘‘ Memoirs”’ refers to 
a trip to Chioggia, and his joy in finding in the pictur- 
esque city a souvenir to the greatness of dramatic art. 

Ermete Novelli in his youth played for two and a 
half years with the Luigi Duse Company. 

From the age of four the life of Eleonora Duse was 
a mere existence in the most miserable poverty, 
which showed only too plainly in the pale, thin little 
face, the mysterious expression in the already mar- 
vellous eyes, and the poor garments that sparsely 
covered the delicate body. 

In the evening, when she was not acting, her 
father and mother generally left her alone in their 
room, without light, owing to the cost of candles, 
while they went to join the company at the theatre. 
The solitude and darkness frightened her, so frequently 
she crawled out of the window on to the _ roof, 
preferring to be cold, close to her friends the stars, 
where she could imagine all kinds of wonderful things, 
rather than to await the return of her parents, trembling 
with fear, in a corner of the dark rcom. 

When fourteen she played the leading réle in an 
antique romantic tragedy, ‘“‘Gaspara Stampa,” at 
Dolo, in a tiny cabin-like country theatre. The frail 
childish voice, hardly heard beyond the front rows, 
was continually forced by someone whispering from 
the wings: ‘‘ Louder! louder! ”’ 

Gaspara despaired, went into delirious spasms, 
not knowing or understanding why. The poor little 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 21 


mind, with a superhuman instinct, searched and found 
the right accents and shrieks to move the crowd of 
spectators, who were supplying—poorly—her daily 
bread. 

At that time only the mother realised the reason 
for the tears, sobs, maddening fatigue and moments 
of horror that the child passed through. Only the 
mother had pity for her suffering, for she alone was 
able to take the tired little body into her loving arms, 
and by her caresses calm the nervous trembling. Only 
her tears were ever mingled with those of Eleonora. 

With the mother’s arms about her she would plead 
for guidance and help. The mother who also had 
suffered knew better than she what must be done in 
order to face life bravely; the mother had known 
misery, ruin, and had found heroic force, pity; she 
had passed through horror to the limit of death—and 
even more. 

Perhaps to-day l’Osteria del Vampa at Dolo is 
still in existence, and no doubt one could sit on the 
same bench before the table where Eleonora Duse, 
after a performance at Dolo, sat with her mother, 
to eat her humble supper. Maybe the owner, wiping 
his hands on a once white apron, would recount how 
his father had known and talked intimately with the 
little girl of the pale face and great mysterious eyes, 
who, when the food was set before her, looked into 
space, as though living over again the scenes that 
she had been acting, from time to time drinking fever- 
ishly from a glass of water ; the movement of the small 
delicate hand fascinating those who watched her, as 
did the indefinable something noble in her face. 

He will, no doubt, if you insist, tell you how distant 
from her surroundings she seemed, even from the 
patient mother, who gently pleaded with her to eat, 
and how she seemed to come back to earth long enough 
to reply: “‘ Wait’; how when the mother, too tired 








22 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


to wait longer, would pay for the untouched food, the 
girl, stuffing a huge piece of common bread in her 
pocket, would go away with her. 

The fortune of the Duse family, almost from the 
time of Eleonora’s birth, had been going backwards 
instead of forwards, and when she was still a mere 
child the greatest misfortune of all, the illness of her 
mother, come upon them. 

Shortly after she was fourteen, the age of a whole- 
some school-girl, her mother was so ill that she was 
forced to go into a hospital. Eleonora’s one desire 
was to be near enough to aid in the nursing, and yet 
in order to live herself she was obliged to act. 

Whenever possible she went out early in the morn- 
ings to the open country, and there in the solitude 
would eat the bread that she had carried away from 
the restaurant the evening before. If there was not 
time enough before the rehearsal for a long walk, 
she contented herself with a visit to the statues in 
the park ; and it is to the classic poses of those statues 
that she later owed her plastic grace. 

In the afternoons her free time was spent at her 
mother’s bedside in the hospital. And the young 
mother, knowing only too well the conditions of the 
little family, never forgot to set aside half of her soup, 
furnished by the hospital, for her daughter. This 
poor excuse for a meal was all the food the child had 
until the following day. 

A growing girl, doing a woman’s work, and living 
on liquid nourishment that would have been 
insufficient for a baby ! 

Her one real joy in life, that of being where she 
could continually see the beloved mother, was 
eventually taken away from her. In order to live 
she had to act, and acting meant travelling from one 
part of Italy to another. 

Fear in her heart, the longing for the beloved one 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 23 





burning like a cruel fire into her very soul, she set 
off on the journey, the memory of her mother’s 
last kiss and a tiny locket containing her picture her 
only possessions. 

Eleonora Duse was playing in Verona with a 
cheap little road company when her mother died in 
Bologna. She was not quite fifteen. 

The leading man kindly handed her the telegram 
announcing the mother’s death at the end of the 
second act. With a superhuman effort she forced 
herself to remain calm, as before the curious company 
she did not wish to show her grief, nor must the public 
during the remainder of the performance notice that 
there was anything wrong with her. 

With a toss of the head worthy of a much older 
person, she defiantly pushed out her chin, clasped 
the thin arms firmly, disdainfully raised her eyebrows 
in order to force back the tears. . . . The performance 
over, she never quite remembered how she got away 
from the theatre; enough that she was alone, far 
from prying eyes... . 

She ran, as fast as her tired legs would carry her, 
towards the house where she lived with her father, 
to shut herself in the tiny room, where with her face 
pressed close to the pillow she could cry her heart 
out in peace. 

It was winter, and the snow was falling fast. The 
tiny actress ran courageously, close to the walls of the 
houses of the lonely street, whispering imploringly : 
“Mamma! Mamma!’ When only a few steps from 
the house, she put her cold hands into the pockets 
of the old coat she was wearing, and suddenly realised 
that one pocket was longer than the other. ... In 
an instant, because of the contact, and the memory it 
brought of the woman who, only a few weeks before, 
ill in bed, dying perhaps, had sewed the pocket so, 
all physical force left her. Only a few steps from the 


24 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


house, alone in the deserted street, leaning helplessly 
against a wall for support, she began to tremble and 
sob. The fearful darkness enveloped her ; the delicate 
hands holding tightly to the lining of the pocket 
seemed to touch the hands of the beloved mother gone 
from her forever. 

Poor little Eleonora, alone as she had never been 
before, the loneliness daily, hourly becoming more 
poignant, continued on her difficult way, never com- 
plaining, always aloof from those who, had they cared, 
might have been able to alleviate her suffering, or in 
some way to have helped her. 

She, who in after life was destined to helpso many, 
never once asked help for herself, even when the 
most difficult problem that ever confronted her came; 
she remained aloof from her companions. 

She had no money to buy a black dress as an out- 
ward and visible sign of her inward mourning, and 
was forced to continue to wear the rags that she pos- 
sessed, merely putting a black crépe band on her sleeve, 
which to her at least showed that someone near and 
dear was gone. 

In the midst of her suffering she heard her com- 
panions whispering with disdain about her indifference 
to her mother’s death. 

“That child certainly has no heart,” one woman 
in the company said loud enough for her to hear ; “‘ she 
isn’t even wearing mourning for her mother!” 

‘““ I—” another remarked, an actress who played the 
grand sentimental réles, “everybody surely knows 
that Iam honest ; still, if I were in her place, I would 
sell myself rather than not have the money to buy a 
black dress! ”’ 

Despite the suggestions of the other women of 
the company, Eleonora continued to wear the coloured 
dress, which fortunately was not vivid. ... And a 
few days later, going home to the furnished room, she 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 25 


found her father in a rage; furiously waving a letter 
at her, he exclaimed : 

“ Listen! An uncle has died in Chioggia, and left 
me 10,000 lire! Think of it, now we have money— 
now that she’s gone! But we don’t want it, do we, 
ae We don’t want to enjoy what she never 

a ! a3 

Without a moment’s hesitation Eleonora agreed 
with her father, though the money was a fortune 
for them and would have been the means of her 
having the mourning clothes that she so longed 
for. | 

“Send it back, father,” she replied simply. ‘‘ We 
are well, and we can work.”’ And the inheritance was 
refused. 

During all of Eleonora Duse’s life there were many 
such refusals, when the money offered would have 
meant just as much as it did to her then; even up to 
the last year before she left for London. 

Eleonora Duse’s childhood, as I have said, was 
spent in the most hopeless misery, as like a gypsy 
she was dragged about from one town to another, 
her only education, apart from the little that her 
mother had been able to teach her, derived from the 
parts she played, or heard. 

How was it possible for the mind to develop with 
the body so poorly nourished? And yet the mind 
did grow, not in proportion to the body, but far beyond 
it; for, only a short time after her mother’s death, 
she began to attract attention in the theatrical world 
by the singular manner in which she read her lines. 
. . . She seemed, so early critics said, to dominate 
a certain fatigue, almost an annoyance, or distaste 
for life. Her eyes at times had the expression of one 
lost in space, vague, indefinite—at other times she 
gave the impression of a person looking beyond her- 
self, as though expecting something from above, 





26 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


something unknown, but of which the presentiment 
was there present. 

Without the intense nature of her mother no doubt 
she would never have become “ The Duse,” and without 
the vigilance of her father she would probably have 
been consumed before her time. 

When, at fourteen, the manager tried to force the 
blooming of the delicate, already too precocious flower, 
her father protested, even refused to shake the tree 
in order to have the fruit fall, preferring to have the 
fruit ripen naturally by the sun’s rays. When she 
was threatened by the manager’s wrath, he never failed 
to interfere. 

“Let my daughter alone,’’ he would say, “if she 
doesn’t want to repeat the lines—when the stairs are 
lighted she’ll go alone. Leave her in peace now, 
Poveretta! She’s Smara!”’ 

This Smara is the demon of the night, the spleen 
of Venice, the spleen which envelops the past in a 
fantastic mist of sadness, the bitterness of the present, 
and the uncertainty of the future—as the lagoon fogs 
unite the earth, sea and sky under a weird grey veil. 

The Smara explains all without defining anything, 
and can come from any cause. . . . With her it was 
sometimes the mere idea of playing for the money to 
buy a bit of bread, at others the artistic temperament 
was bruised by the miserable frame surrounding her, 
the frame which so little resembled her ideal. Her 
vulgar companions, the mud above which her very 
soul cried out, brought on the Smara, and at such 
times she pronounced certain words with difficulty ; 
and the sentiments that she could not prove, or those 
that she would not profane, weighed heavily upon her. 


Her progress in Art was never rapid or easy, and 
until 1873 or 1874 she seems to have remained entirely 
in the dark—lonely, unhappy, and often hungry. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 27 


When she was still in short skirts, at Piacenza, 
a provincial city not far from Milan, together with 
another member of the same company, Libero Pilotto, 
who afterwards became famous as actor and author, 
she stole a slice of polenta (a sort of cornmeal bread), 
in order to have the strength to play that evening 
the lover’s tragedy of “‘ Romeo and Juliet.” 

And in that same play only a few months later, 
at Verona, she had what must be considered her first 
success, in that the intimation of real talent, the art 
of conception and execution, was first noted in her 
interpretation of Juliet. 

“A find,” the critics called her, ‘‘ a veritable rose 
find.”’ In asubtle action, a moment’s work, the aristo- 
cratic touch of genius had been reflected again and 
again to the enthusiastic public. . . . “ Tvovatadirose”’ 
(rose find) the papers of that time spoke of her. Man- 
agers became alert, and not a few leading ladies began 
looking anew to their laurels. The Revue de Panis, 
1874, wrote : 

“A real ray of sunlight of a sudden brightened the 
scene, miraculously diffusing with the glow of the 
drama that Italian glimmer that the poet with his 
marvellous divination had felt. The greatness of 
Shakespeare was all there in the person of Juliet. 
She, the Duse, had probably spent all her little savings 
to buy roses—pale roses with delicate tender shadings, 
roses more deeply tinted, passionate roses ; but always 
pink. . . . How could she have been Juliet without 
those roses in her hands? They were her talisman, 
her fascination—and they gave her poise. 

‘“‘ She played her part deliciously, with those long- 
stemmed roses in her arms—sometimes close to her 
face, the delicate perfume seeming to inebriate her ; 
at other moments pressed close to her heart, as though 
to still the rapid beating there. ... Then Romeo 
appeared: their eyes met ; the roses trembled visibly 


28 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in Juliet’s hands, one loosened from the bunch fell 
at her feet. In order to remain a moment longer 
with Romeo she stooped slowly ; he anticipated her, 
picked up the rose, and without a word offered it, 
his eyes fixed on hers... . Off stage the mother 
called sharply—Juliet in fear ran from the scene, 
with the rose that her lover had touched held close to 
her heart. 

“When the sun turned towards the west Juliet 
was at the window, her hands again full of roses, 
she herself no less a flower than they—ready to 
burst into full bloom. Will love or death pluck 
her ? Romeo appears—he approaches, is under the 
balcony. She pulls the roses nervously to pieces, 
and lets the petals fall slowly on his upturned brow. 
This subtle declaration of her love affects him as the 
perfume had inebriated her. 

“The drama unfolded with the poetry of the hour, 
accompanied by a mysterious, almost musical har- 
mony. The curtain rose again, and we were at the 
last scene. The dim lights flickered sadly ; weirdly 
illuminating the cemetery. The lark no longer raised 
her joyous song to the heavens, instead the ill-fated 
bats of the night were in the air, swooping down mali- 
ciously to batter their wings against the resisting 
walls, and sending cries of anguish into the stillness 
of the night. ... Juliet was reposing on a bed of 
flowers, Romeo at her feet. In order to awaken him, 
as in the balcony scene, she scattered the soft petals 
over him, until he was covered as by a shroud—then 
she dropped beside the beloved corpse, in the midst 
of the flowers that for one short day had blossomed 
for them alone.” 

Her artistic instinct had found the dominating 
note of the roses, that joined so harmoniously the 
first to the supreme tryst—united love with death. 

This idea of the flowers, and their indestructible 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 29 


value; remained one of the salient points during all 
Eleonora Duse’s long theatrical career. 

When the footlights were out, and the crowd dis- 
persed, Juliet got up from her grave trembling. 
The moon shone with splendour lighting the arena 
with the clearness of day. Too excited to go home, 
the young girl walked about the streets, her father, 
respecting her need for silence, following her without 
a word. For hours she walked without an idea of 
direction, dreamingly, towards the future. 

The clocks of Verona struck the hour of midnight, 
and at last the father spoke : 

“ Let’s go and have supper, little girl! ”’ 

She let him take her home, and wearily dropped 
on her bed. The impression produced by the drama 
had been too great. The garret, poverty, all dis- 
appeared. She had become Juliet, and in some way 
had found the means of arriving at the height necessary 
to pass from real life to the superiority of poetical 
creation, and she had understood the grandness of 
the sentiment of love. 


It is impossible to say at exactly what age she 
made the first true impression, for early biographers 
recount that in 1874 or 1875 she was with the Duse- 
Lagunaz Company as the youngest ingénue. This 
company was managed by Luigi Aliprandi, an actor 
of note; and Celestina Paladini, who much later 
married Flavio Ando, was the leading woman. 

The fact that at fourteen, when her actions could 
not have been guided by previous experience, she 
was able to interpret a difficult part like Juliet, as she 
did, shows the innate refinement and talent which 
she possessed, and that her work from the very begin- 
ning was that of purest inspiration. 

The Benincasa Company came next, then that of 
Luigi Pezzana, where her life was not a bed of roses ; 





30 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


for her artistic personality had begun to assert itself, 
and was entirely in contrast to that of the star, an 
actor indifferent to all conventionalities of dramatic 
art. 

With such a company, the life and work of the 
girl, who was already beginning to have her own 
ideas, were constantly disturbed by rebuffs and infinite 
discussions in the endeavour to belittle her. 

Pezzana has gone down in history as a prophet 
because of a remark that he made to Eleonora in a 
moment of anger. 

They were playing at Fano, a small city on the 
Adriatic coast, and were rehearsing a new comedy. 
In the middle of the scene Pezzana interrupted the 
Duse, then second woman of the company, to correct 
her. 

“That line doesn’t go so!”’ he spoke brusquely ; 
“it goes so!’ And he repeated the line in his own 
way. 
Eleonora had a certain pride in her own ideas, 
and did not intend to be corrected when she knew 
she was in the right, so replied quite calmly that 
she meant to read her lines as she thought best, 
and that if he didn’t like it he could find someone 
else. Pezzana flew into a rage, and yelled at her: 

“Why don’t you quit trying to be an actress, any- 
way? Can’t you understand that the theatrical 
profession isn’t bread for your teeth? Better find 
another business where you'll have more chance! ”’ 


From a spiritual point of view her childhood and 
girlhood were worse than drab. Children above 
all things are joyous, have a clear illuminating vision 
of life—they laugh and sing at their play, sending 
their glad ringing voices into the lmpid air about 
them. The loving arms of the mother are ever ready 
to receive them, to caress and comfort. Eleonora 


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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 31 








Duse knew nothing of the tender care that other 
girls have—the little pale face never smiled, except 
on the stage; her big eyes were melancholy, her 
mouth drawn with an expression of pain. ... The 
loneliness, indigence, uncertainness of the morrow, 
added to the lack of tenderness, at times terrified her ; 
and she was continually preparing herself to confront 
life unaided, without comfort. ... In those days 
she never pretended to herself, as anyother girl ight 
have done, that the future appeared other than a 
miserable existence, as the past had been. 


Though the actual date remains uncertain, with 
the “rose find’’ we have the real beginning of her 
glorious career. At four her name first appeared in 
print ; at fourteen she was a small personality—very 
small, but a personality ; at twenty-four acclaimed the 
leading actress in Italy ; and not more than ten years 
later she ranked among the world’s greatest stars. 

Without doubt it was a rose find, but was the 
delightful effect obtained, in which the rose was 
practically the protagonist, due to chance or under- 
standing ? Was the rose dropped consciously by her ? 
It seems likely that the first revelation of greatness 
in the actress was also the revelation of the budding 
woman, which afterlife was to demonstrate greater 
than her art, great as that was, for from the first 
promise to the full revelation there was no suspension, 
no retreat—the actress grew apace with the woman. 


The next step noted was at Terni, in “ Alcibiade,”’ 
by Felice Cavaletti. The part of Timandra was 
played by an actress called Marchi, who, one evening, 
owing to illness, was obliged to abandon her role. 
The public insisted upon the continuation of the 
spectacle, and after due consideration Eleonora Duse 
consented to put on Timandra’s Greek costume. . 





32 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The public lost nothing by the substitution, and the 
seventeen-year-old actress had a reasonable success. 

After Pezzana she was successively with Icilie 
Brunatti, Ettore Dondini, and Adolfe Drago. In 1878 
she had her first important engagement with the Ciotti- 
Belli Blanes Company, in which she played second 
leads with the Piomonti, and the Pasquali. Others 
in the company well known in Italy at that time were 
Giacinta Pezzana, Majeroni, and Emanuel. 

The spontaneousness and sincerity of diction and 
the intelligence with which she played the numerous 
and varied parts was attracting attention, though at 
Trieste it seems that times were still hard, for during 
a short season there the manager more than once 
called her aside to advise her to pay more attention 
to her work, as “‘ the public couldn’t see her with a 
microscope.’ 

These reproofs hurt and humiliated her, and added 
another thorn to the crown of misery that she wore 
patiently. It hurt her sensibility to know that the 
public for which she worked so hard failed to appreci- 
ate her. ... On her face the inward suffering left 
its trace in a profound, almost unearthly beauty, a 
beauty something beyond the physical traits that 
the world is accustomed to recognise. 

Never at any time of her life was Eleonora Duse 
considered beautiful, but she was, from the beginning 
to the end, mystic. 

Still with the same company at the Fiorentini 
Theatre, Naples, during the illness of the leading 
woman, whom she understudied, she was able to go 
on in the part of Maia in Augier’s play. The rdle gave 
Eleonora a magnificent opportunity to show artistic 
qualities, different from the conventional acting that 
the theatregoers were accustomed to. 

So original and fine was her performance that 
Giovanni Emanuel, a theatrical genius, and fortunately 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 33 


a spectator that evening, took the matter to the Princess 
Santobuono, and insisted upon her aiding him to form 
a new company for Giacinta Pezzana and Eleonora 
Duse. 

The original plan was to star the Duse in the play 
in which she had made such an_ unforgettable 
impression, and in which the part of Maia seemed 
to have entered into the very soul of the valiantly 
promising young actress. Just why this plan was 
never carried out still remains a professional secret, an 
unveilable mystery of the Italian stage. 

Notwithstanding the praise of the Press, and the 
public’s continued calls for the Duse, the management 
only permitted her to appear once every two or three 
weeks, as though wilfully neglecting or endeavouring 
to make the public forget her. 

After Maia she played with credit Ofelia and 
Fletta in “ Oreste,” and at last, in 1879, Teresa 
Raquin with Giacinta Pezzana in Naples. 

When the new Zola play was taken by the company, 
the Pezzana selected the elderly part, and that of 
the young Teresa was given to the Duse. 

With the rare intensity for which she afterwards 
became famous, the budding actress in her studied and 
rehearsed the difficult part ; the manuscript, from the 
time it was given her until the opening night, 
scarcely ever out of her sight. One of the numerous 
notices show that the study was rewarded. 

This, the distinguished critic wrote after speaking 
at length of the success of the Pezzana : 

“ The other imposing creation was that of Eleonora 
Duse as Teresa. The magnificent triumph of last 
evening will never be forgotten by those who witnessed 
her. As I write I see her again in the simple black 
dress, leaning with rare abandon against the window, 
distracted, far from her surroundings. . . . Then when 
Teresa in her bridal robe and veil is frightened and 

Cc 


34 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


clings to Lorenzo, in whom love no longer overcomes 
remorse ; when horrified she sees the portrait of the 
murderer Camille, and with terrified eyes, trembling 
and unable to speak, she shows it to Lorenzo; in the 
scene of fierce reproach, when she grasps the chair 
for a support—and in the last act, when love has 
turned to ferocious hatred, and the paralysed mother 
smiles implacably at the two culprits, cold chills 
ran up and down one’s spine. Shudders of horrible 
suffering too deep for tears completely subjugated the 
soul, taking away from one, momentarily, the courage 
to applaud.”’ 

The old custody of the “ Fiorentini ’”’ was heard to 
say as the crowd flocked out of the theatre : 

“ Signuri, chesta é Essa ”’ (that’s She, gentlemen !) 

Naples saw the reward of her long years of con- 
tinued hard work, and Naples saw also her first and 
greatest woman's anguish. There she knew and lived 
through the hours of her great young love, and the 
too-human suffering that followed. Hours that for- 
tunately meet never to return. Happiness knocked 
lightly on her door—then hurried by! 

In Naples she knew Martino Cafiero, a young jour- 
nalist, fascinating, intelligent and elegant. Up to the 
time of meeting with Cafiero her life had practically 
been passed among the people of her own class—actors ; 
many of them kind and generous to her—but they 
were not what the romantic heart of a young girl 
pictured as the ideal man. In Cafiero’s very elegance 
she saw something different, felt the first woman’s 
passion stir in her. 

In his position as a newspaper man he had free 
access to the theatre, for the rehearsals as well as 
the performance. He was a man, young. The big, 
serious eyes of the little actress called to him across 
the footlights; the sweet, fresh voice was continually 
in his ears; and no doubt he would not have taken a 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 35 


young society girl as he did the lonely Eleonora ; no 
doubt he would have respected a girl in a superior 
position, one who had a family or someone to take care 
ofher. But he was gay and care-free—when he laughed 
the world laughed with him ; he was sought after, and 
copied by other newspaper men; women fell easily 
for his charms—so what wonder that Eleonora Duse, 
who knew so little of life, and nothing of love, should 
have fallen where those wiser than she had fallen 
before her ? 

He tormented her waking hours, and even her 
dreams, for weeks; hope and despair alternating 
and keeping her continually in a nervous state that 
may in a way have accounted for her success in Teresa 


Raquin. 
Then the joy came. He loved her, loved the 
hitherto drab unknown actress. ... She had been 


acting love for a long time ; men had held her in their 
arms, kissed her with passion; but it had never been 
real, the passion had been for the person she repre- 
sented, not for her—the woman. Juliet had been 
madly loved by Romeo—more wonderful and hand- 
some than she had dreamed he could be. 

From the time that Cafiero became her lover dates 
the awakening of the woman. In physical love and 
passion she had found herself. With him she was 
jealous and happy by turn. His ardent caresses 
satisfied her sensual desires, and left her nervous and 
unsatisfied when alone. 

She adored him, and gave him her all: her youth 
and purity, and had no desire to be free, for to her 
freedom meant other men. If he had to be free that 
was for another mistress, or perhaps a wife—for at 
that time he had no wish to marry her. From that 
deduction began the torment. 

When they were alone in the modest furnished 
room that she occupied and she was close in his arms, 


36 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


his kisses showering on her, she forgot the pain and 
doubt, and gave herself up to the feminine joy of 
feeling herself his body and soul, to the joy of 
possessing him. 

Sometimes, after several hours of ardent love, he 
would leave her at the theatre and go off with his 
friends, not to see her until the following day. These 
were the evenings that she played with more assurance, 
for, with her lips still burning from his kisses, she was 
able to put a deeper meaning into the passionate 
scenes of the play; on the occasions when she had 
not seen him all day, full of doubt as to his honesty 
and loyalty, she would go listlessly to her work, 
and frequently be unable to enter into the réle forced 
upon her. 

If after the performance he strolled into her 
dressing-room, in a fury of mad love and jealousy 
she would throw herself recklessly into his arms, 
laughing and crying at the same time, and not 
until he took her on his lap and assured her that 
he loved her more than all the world would she be 
happy again. | 

Her joy over the coming of the baby knew no 
bounds, for not only was she to be a mother, but the 
child would bind him to her forever. 

But Fate willed it otherwise. The baby, a boy, 
died very young. His death for a time completely 
prostrated her, and with a new passion almost of 
desperation she turned to Cafiero. Turned to him, 
only to lose him, for while their love was still in the 
realm of the ideal, Martino Cafiero also died. His 
death following so closely the loss of the adored baby 
almost unbalanced her mind. 

The wee little thing gone from her for ever. . 
The death of the man she loved ; a desperation verging 
on suicide, when all through one night she walked 
the streets, maddened by the atrociousness of her 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 37 


anguish—and from that anguish the tragedienne that 
all the world eventually applauded was born. 

The very cruelty of life dazzled her, and was a 
continual revelation of herself to herself. Natural 
pride developed, and all the coquetry necessary to 
attract attention and success. 

She took herself seriously in hand, disciplining the 
forces that Nature had endowed her with. 

Notwithstanding the success of Teresa Raquin 
the Duse was not yet held in great consideration in 
the Rossi company. Teobaldo Marchetti, one of the 
lesser lights, except in character parts, where his make- 
up always attracted attention, saw in the young 
nervous girl possibilities that were ignored by the 
managers and public. 

“That Duse girl has a fortune ahead,” he told 
Rossi one day. ‘‘ You ought to keep on giving her 
a chance.” 

““She’s too skinny and underfed-looking,” Rossi 
complained. “To be great in Art a woman has to be 
beautiful. Do you expect the public to pay just to 
geo her?” 

“She made good in Juliet when she was little 
more than a baby, so to speak. She made good in 
Teresa Raquin. Give her a chance, I tell you!” 

However, Rossi had more experienced women in 
the company and was not quite ready to follow the 
far-seeing advice. 

Marchetti—who acted under the name of Teobaldo 
Checchi—like Eleonora Duse, was born of poor travelling 
actors, and like her was possessed of innate refinement. 
His constant observation of her acting convinced him 
that in her very indolence and distraction lay the 
charm of the sleeping talent, which the recent suffering 
had only to a certain extent awakened. 

While watching and studying her he became aware 
of the mental tragedy that she was passing through. 


38 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


He pitied her, then loved her. 

They were married at Florence in 1881. 

As an actor he was never distinguished other than 
in the part of Veuillard, in “ Rabagas,” by Sardou. 
He was an intelligent and far-seeing man, and 
an excellent advance agent. Supported by Icilio 
Polese, manager of “‘ Arte Dramatica,’ he was of 
inestimable use to his wife, in that he forced her 
with proper tact upon the public. 


After the fortunate appearance in Teresa Raquin, 
Eleonora Duse’s name began to be on the lips of all 
theatre-goers, and the New Year found her engaged 
with Cesare Rossi, a great actor of the old school, but 
with modern ideas and the youthful force to put them 
through. With him she was the second leading woman 
—Gliacinta Pezzana the first—in other words, she 
alternated with the Pezzana. 

In Venice she played “ Fernande,’ by Sardou. 
In the part of Georgene she created the impression 
of a fantastic apparition, a phenomenon. . . . Never 
in the innermost soul of a critic could the hope have 
been found to hear lines read on any stage as she 
read them: agitated, disturbed, with quick bursts 
of passion; plastic, spontaneous! There was more 
than presentiment, more than confidence. She put 
life into inanimate objects, absorbed the vitality of 
the living. . . . With a quick perception she turned 
the words and phrases to the other’s reasoning. In a 
look or a smile, an “oh!” or an “ah!” the intense 
word, the prolonged silence, a step forward, a move- 
ment of the hand—the hands of infinite expression. 
... The greatness of Georgene on the stage was 
Eleonora Duse, who, without doubt, even to herself, 
was Georgene. . . . Her eyes, mouth, gestures ; her 
voice, pure diction . . . in fact, the entire anterpreta- 
tion detached her from the others. 


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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 39 





The masterly performance of Giacinta Pezzana, 
richly spontaneous, the robust, alluring voice that 
had the power to thrill any audience, uplifting even 
the topmost gallery to the point of delirium, for some 
unknown reason retired into insignificance before that 
of the little Duse. 

After “ Fernande”’ Giacinta Pezzana remained 
the classic actress, but Eleonora Duse, who had 
opened the way for a new method of acting, with 
Latin enthusiasm was acclaimed by the progressive 
Italians. 

“It is not surprising that you are restless and 
agitated,” her parents had often told her; “ you are 
a child of 1859, and war is in your veins.”’ 

1859 was the era of the patriotic awakening in 
Italy, when the Milanese opened the way to their 
French liberators, and when the young Italy was 
obsessed by the fever of growth—which has lasted 
ever since. 

- Youth desired an actress who belonged to youth. 
There was change, progress, in the new generation 
coming forward. Eleonora Duse was the one who could 
feel joy and suffering, ambition, dreams, illusions, 
disillusions ; the desire of agitated life, tormented, 
nervous, giddy ; and she was the actress they wanted. 

A few months later, realising the sentiments of 
his public, Cesare Rossi made her the absolute leading 
woman of his company. 

With Rossi and Emanuel she toured triumphantly 
most of Italy. Her repertoire included “ Sorellina,”’ 
“ Odette,’ ‘‘ Teodora,’ ‘‘ Divorcons,” ‘‘ Pameta,”’ 
“ Gli Innamorati,” ‘‘ Fedora,” ““ Amore Senza Stima,”’ 
“* Fernande,” and the Goldoni play, ‘‘ La Locandiera,”’ 
which remained one of her favourite interpretations. 

The following year Eleonora Duse, then Signora 
Checchi, was at the Carignano Theatre, Turin, with 
the Cesare Rossi Company as the leading woman, 


40 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


playing without enthusiasm the mediocre plays of the 
Italian repertoire, or bad French translations, generally 
to half-empty houses, even though the seats were 
sold at a modest price. 

More than once after a performance, physically 
and mentally exhausted by the force which she put 
into the work of trying to please the indifferent public, 
she dropped in her dressing-room more dead than 
alive. A moment later the secretary probably brought 
her the cheering news that her part of the receipts 
for the evening’s performance amounted to twenty- 
seven lire and fifty centimes. 

Discouraged over the way things were going, she 
brooded continually, and had almost decided to leave 
the stage, when the arrival of Sarah Bernhardt was 
announced at the Carignano Theatre; the Italian 
company to give place to the French for the duration 
of the great artist’s stay in Turin. 

Immediately preparations for the reception of the 
grand Sarah began. Everything behind the scenes 
was completely done over, with the hope of having 
a place worthy of the artist beloved of the gods. .. . 
The Duse’s modest little dressing-room was trans- 
formed into a reasonably pretentious boudoir... . 
For eight days there was a continual procession of 
luggage between the theatre and hotel. A menagerie 
preceded the grand Dompteuse: dogs, monkeys, 
parrots, and the fallows which she had brought back 
from another voyage accompanied her on this tour. 

The astonishment of the simple Italians who 
helped with the unpacking of the exotic curiosities © 
knew no bounds, and Eleonora—instead of feeling 
a natural jealousy over the extensive preparations 
for the triumph of another—was merely filled with a 
legitimate pride. 

‘ At last,’ she said with sincere conviction, “ there 
is one woman who has been able to raise our 


Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 41 


business above the mundane, who leads the mass 
to the respect of the beautiful, and obliges them to 
bow before Art.” 

Sarah finally appeared. . . .“‘ I am here—look and 
listen !’’ she seemed to say as she took possession of 
the stage, and the audience assembled to render her 
the deserved homage. 

The boxes cost one hundred lire, an unheard-of 
price for Turin, where generally five lire bought the 
best place in any theatre. Every box and seat in 
the house was sold in advance. 

_ The Duse followed each performance with intense 
interest. Like the others—more than the others no 
doubt—ravished by Sarah’s talent, seduced by her 
charm. She was untiring in her applause, vibrating 
with the actress, whose words she did not understand, 
almost as though she herself were saying them. 

In the art of the famous woman—admirable, pro- 
found, magnificent, clean-cut, at times inimitable— 
Eleonora saw, as in a glass, the reflection of her own 
inward strength. The execution of an occult idea, 
which to some might seem an audacious unconscious- 
ness, in her was the consciousness of pure force. 

Several evenings after the departure of the glorious 
Bernhardt, who had left behind her a luminous trail, 
in the light of which Eleonora still lingered, the Italian 
troupe again took its place at the Carignano... . 
The ever-prudent Rossi, for fear of the still vivid mem- 
ories of the Frenchwoman, proposed to give an old 
play by Gherado da Testa, ‘‘ Il Trionfo d’Adelaide.”’ 

The Duse protested. 

“Tf I play to-morrow evening,” she said resolutely, 
“it will be something that Turin is not already tired 
ox: 

“And that is . . .?”’ Rossi was astonished at the 
unusual courage expressed by the hitherto timid leading 
woman. 


42 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“ “The Princess of Bagdad.’ ”’ 

“Hm! you think you can make a hit in that after 
the grand Sarah ? ”’ 

“Precisely. In any case, she didn’t play ‘The 
Princess of Bagdad’ here; and I merely mean to 
profit by the sympathetic wave that she established 
between the stage and the stalls.”’ 

ce Bin 

“If you don’t want me to play the Princess——’ 

“Which was hooted in Paris!” 

“ All the more reason !—I shall quit you!” 

“And where will you go ?”’ 

“ Chi lo sa 2?” (Who knows ?) 

And she played “‘ The Princess of Bagdad,” thereby 
inaugurating the long, though frequently interrupted 
series of her triumphs—the first step of the glorious 
march. 

The Italians, awakened by Sarah, watched the 
scene with more attention than they had ever given 
a dramatic spectacle, as in general they were in the 
habit of using the theatre for a meeting-place more 
than a place of amusement. 

“I also am here,” she said to her inmost soul. 
“T also.” And later the crowd took up the cry: 
‘““She also is here! She also—and she belongs to us ! ” 
And they were proud—proud to know that in the not 
distant future they would have an actress in Italy 
who could hold her own with the great glory of France. 

From then on Eleonora Duse was continually in 
the limelight, and very soon after appeared in Rome. 

Count Primoli wrote in May, 1881, to Alexandre 
Dumas : 


, 


“Last evening I had the victory that I have long 
waited for. ‘The Princess of Bagdad’ has triumphed 
in every sense of the word. The play has been pre- 
sented frequently by mediocre actors for more than 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 43 


a month with little success, until yesterday a young 
actress forced it upon a refractory public, and con- 
strained them to bow before your work, and to applaud 
with enthusiasm the most daring and risqué lines.” 


After going into details as to the acting, and com- 
paring the Duse with the Croizette, who first created 
the part of Lionnette, he closes the letter : 


“I can imagine what the beautiful Croizette must 
be in this réle, and I rejoice at the thought of applauding 
her next autumn. But despite the fact that in Paris 
you are used to perfection, for love of justice I wish 
that the name of Eleonora Duse reach you. The 
manner in which she interprets you, and makes 
one understand, renders her worthy of this honour.”’ 


To which Dumas replied: 


“ T had already received a letter from Rossi announc- 
ing the success of ‘ The Princess of Bagdad,’ but I 
mistrusted the chief comedian of an Italian company, 
the natural rival of another. Your letter proves that 
he told the truth, and I am veryhappy for it. I do 
not understand why the Romans should not understand 
a play of this sort, for people used to the Last Judg- 
ment can easily support certain tableaux. 

“ Despite the difficulty of the first performance of 
the ‘ Princess’ in Paris, the receipts for the following 
forty have amounted to 243,000 francs—in other words : 
6,000 francs per performance. ... You will un- 
doubtedly see it in the autumn.—Yours, etc., 

‘“ ALEXANDRE DUMAS.”’ 


And Cesare Rossi received the following : 


“DEAR Mr. Rossi,—With your letter I also re- 
ceived one from my young friend X, repeating the 





44 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


announcement of your great success, and that of 
Mlle. Duse. Will you be my interpreter to this 
beautiful person, whose talent is ‘hors ligne,’ my friend 
says, and who in this réle has shown audacious splen- 
dour, which benefits her as well as the author ? 

“It is necessary to have artists such as she to 
make the public understand a work that is out of 
the ordinary. . . . I am more than astonished and 
gratified by the success at Rome. The Italian warmth 
seems to me to be a natural accompaniment for such 
a subject. You have put everything in its place, and 
I am very proud and grateful. . . . With this letter 
I am sending two brochures for you and Mlle. 
Duse. 

“ T hear that you are likely to come to Paris soon. 
I shall indeed be glad to clasp your hand, and, if you 
play, to applaud you. 

“Thanking you again, etc., 

‘‘ ALEXANDRE DUMAS.” 


This letter was published in several daily papers, 
and was the means of the Duse’s entire consecration 
to Italy. 

At Turin, towards the end of 1881, after she had 
passed through a long period of cruel suffering, mental 
and physical, which for a time had kept her from the 
theatre, Cesare Rossi, confident that her nervousness 
was a result of recent emotions, seeing her undecided 
which way to turn, offered to keep her with him 
exclusively for the grande emotional rdles. Still 
suffering, she accepted, without believing that she 
could keep to her word, and signed the contract— 
as she herself put it—the way one signs a note that 
one is sure not to be able to meet, and knowing that, 
when it falls due, the only way to pay it will be to 
commit suicide. 

The old actor was not mistaken in his diagnosis. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 45 


Art called Eleonora Duse back to life; her greatness 
was again proclaimed. 

She became what she was without passing through 
the usually agreed conventionalities. A simple cry 
from the heart had made her, for she had done nothing 
more than study herself, transforming her own life 
into the réle she played. She knew that what was 
missing in the part she could replace by art and truth. 
She had no souvenir of what she had never been taught, 
but she remembered what she had suffered. Her 
talent was made of flesh and blood, nourished by the 
misery of childhood, and the trials of youth. 

With impenetrable reserve she kept her private 
life secret, only on the stage permitting herself the 
luxury of opening her heart, full to overflowing with 
tortured desires. 

To hear her cast reproach at her companion— 
husband, lover, father, as the case might be—was 
enough to know that she had been wounded to the 
quick, and that the words in the mouth of the heroine 
were merely an echo from her own heart—a lest motive 
of grief which chained the betrayal to the promise, 
the denouncement to the prologue. 

Pity, anger, vengeance, and most of all her pardon, 
were all sentiments worth listening to. Even in 
youth she had learned the greatness of pardon, which 
time was to mellow and make more beautiful. 

The inward torture continued. Success had brought 
the glory that is rarely known in youth, but it had 
brought also a realisation of her ignorance as a woman. 
Eleonora Duse had suffered physically all her life, 
known want, and all kinds of deprivation, from the 
day of her birth. She had loved, given her soul as 
well as her pure young body to the man of her heart 
—and death had cruelly taken him from her. She 
had been a mother, only to lose the child before her 
arms had even become accustomed to holding him... . 


: 





46 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Another baby had come to her, a girl, in lawful wedlock, 
but her wandering, uncertain life made it impossible 
to keep the child with her, so the loving arms were 
empty. . . . Her husband ?—he was her husband. 

To have a continual pain in one’s heart that made 
it possible to understand the suffering of others, and 
to be able to put that suffering over the footlights— 
was that enough to make a great actress? No! 
she answered to herself. One must have an inner 
life worth while, some fund to fall back on. The 
mind must be cultivated ; one must read and study 
the thoughts of others in order to have something 
to think about one’s self. 

From then on, about 1882, until the last days of 
her life the Duse gave all her free time to reading, 
and much of the money that might have been put 
aside for a rainy day was spent on books. If she 
saw a book in a shop window with an alluring cover, 
no matter in what language it was written, she would 
buy it, and not many years agoshe purchased a book | 
in Hindu, because there was a picture of Rabindranath 
Tagore on the first page, and the likeness of the Hindu 
poet seemed to her the symbol of faith and moral 
beauty. For a long time she kept it where she 
could contemplate it every minute. 

One of her very old actors recalls how at an 
early age he marvelled at her passion for reading, for 
many times on going into her room at an hotel he saw 
her flat on the floor, leaning on her elbows, a book 
before her, and many other books scattered about. 
On his entrance she would raise her eyes from the 
page before her, one finger marking the place, take 
off the rimmed glasses, and begin an animated dis- 
cussion of the book she had been reading. 


The continued unhoped-for success of ‘‘ The Princess 
of Bagdad ”’ gave the Duse the desire to try another 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 47 


play by the same author, something that had perhaps 
already been forgotten in France. 

Three motives drew her to the play ‘ Claude’s 
Wife”: it had not been a success, the strangeness of 
it fascinated her, and the lovely French actress Desclée 
had created it. 

One day by mere chance she came across the pages 
consecrated so delightfully, and to the best of his 
great ability, by Alexandre Dumas to his interpreter. 
... Little by little her sympathy went out to the 
poor Aimée, whom she had never seen, but whose 
character and talent, both as woman and artist, 
charmed her. 3 

She had found the theatres in Turin, Florence and 
Naples still fresh with the success of the great unknown 
genius ; she had breathed the same air breathed by 
the Desclée; played on the same stage, and occupied 
the same dressing-room—and so it seemed that a bit 
of the soul of the one who was gone had mysteriously 
passed into hers. . . . Also the Duse, who even at 
that time could not be compared with any other 
actress because of her inimitable qualities, as well as 
incorrigible faults, liked the idea of being near the 
Desclée, with, as a French writer said, this difference : 
“The Desclée was essentially Parisian, and the Duse 
had a universal soul.” 

There he erred, for if ever a woman’s soul was 
exclusively Italian that woman was Eleonora Duse— 
only in Art was she universal. ; 

This particular sympathy for the memory of Desclée 
went even to the extreme point of her being flattered 
when she was accused at times of a nasal voice, as the 
first wife in “ Claude’s Wife’’ had been reproached 
for the same defect. . . . This adoration of the martyr 
brought eventual happiness to the Duse. 

“The dead,” she insisted, “help the living. My 
mother has always helped me, otherwise ’’—unutterable 





48 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


sadness veiled the brightness of her eyes for a 
moment whenever she mentioned her mother—‘ other- 
wise,’ she would repeat softly, ““I wouldn’t be here 
to-day.” 


As soon as it became generally known that Eleonora 
Duse intended giving ‘“ Claude’s Wife,’ which no one 
had ventured to present after Desclée, a general murmur 
arose. Even those who had faith in her talent 
regretted her dissipating herself in a bad cause, but, 
persevering with her project, one by one she gathered 
the company together. . . . Count Primoli, who fre- 
quently assisted at the rehearsals, wrote : 


“Not only did Cesarine seem the embodiment of 
the amorous panther ’’ (as she was afterwards called), 
“but she was the help and inspiration of all the others, 
whose réles she explained and literally played... . 
Never have I so completely understood this strange 
complicated work.” 


“Tutte le battute sono foderate,’’ she said con- 
tinually. ‘‘ All the lines are lined, and to appreciate 
the play you must not look at the written words but 
at the words under them.”’ 

Cesarine as the part was written was perfidious, 
capricious, almost intolerable. Eleonora Duse’s ex- 
perience was limited; nevertheless she won. The 
triumph was rousing, memorable! Her Cesarine was 
no longer the violent female, unreasonable, perverse ; 
instead, there was something restless, ill, almost sweet, | 
that sought pardon and love. . . . She was frantically 
applauded ; her future assured. 


The poor little exile, with the great brown eyes 
the only light in the dun colour face, had truly become 
somebody, as her father and mother had so fondly 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 49 


hoped. She to whom the soldiers had presented 
arms in a night had become the bird in a gilded 
cage to whom the public bowed, and later were to 
worship. . . . There would be no more poverty or 
wondering if she must go without a meal in order to 
have the money to buy a few flowers or a book— 
no more humiliations; instead, respect, consideration 
from fellow actors, admiration from the crowds— 
glory ! 

Sarah Bernhardt’s manager, Schurmann, who had 
accompanied her to Italy in 1881, saw Eleonora Duse 
at the Carignano, and was struck with her marvellous 
interpretation of the heroine in ‘ Claude’s Wife,” 
and at once offered her a series of representations in 
the great cities of Europe. The Duse looked at him 
with stupor and replied : / 

“Either you’re making’ fun of me, or you're 
singularly fooling yourself. I’m only a little Italian 
actress, and in a foreign country nobody would under- 
stand me. To force oneself on a public that does not 
know the language in which one speaks, one must have 
genius ; and I only have a little talent. Let me per- 
fect my art, which I love passionately, and don't 
try to distract me from the life that Ihave chosen. . . . 
Later, if I succeed, and have sufficient faith in myself, 
we can speak of the matter again.” 


Before going to London with the Cesare Rossi 
Company, practically starred, she was in Florence re- 
hearsing, and at that time conceived the idea of learning 
French. With the same fervour that she would have 
given to a new role, she dedicated herself to the study 
that, owing to lack of early instruction, was exceedingly 
difficult. Despite all that she had to overcome, in a 
very short time she had learned enough to follow the 
intellectual development of France, in the original. 
. . . She read, discussed, listened and learned. There 

D 





50 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


was no book that came under her hand that she did 
not devour—but not yet satisfied with her knowledge, 
she devoted herself to patient study, until such time as 
she was able to get the full enchantment and beauty out 
of each literary work. To her credit it must be added 
that she attained a perfect command of the language, 
which she spoke without accent. French was the only 
language which she spoke outside of her own. 

Her readings, dating from 1880, included modern 
literature in every line—scientific, romantic, artistic ; 
above all artistic. 


The Pezzana retired from the Rossi Company, and 
Eleonora Duse remained the only leading woman. It 
was her desire, even longing, to battle with the public 
by giving plays that no other actress had eve rbeen 
able to render acceptable. 

Italy was already overflowing with posters relating 
to the Duse. She was seen on the walls, board fences, 
and every place that a sign could be hung: standing; 
sitting ; getting into a carriage ; biting the tip of her 
finger with a hand before her face to attract attention 
to her greatest beauty; in crinoline, in Japanese 
costume, the latest Parisian mode ; alone, in company ; 
at work, at play. 

Articles were being published in all the papers for 
and against her mode of acting ; questioning her private 
life, her way of dressing, doing her hair. Some called 
her a genius, others spoke of her as a poseur and said 
that her affectation was ruining dramatic art in Italy. 
... he had few friends at that time, and many 
enemies, mostly in the profession. 

After the success of ‘‘ The Princess of Bagdad ” 
in Rome, and later “‘ Claude’s Wife,’’ Alexandre Dumas 
inserted a note in his theatrical works that is a testi- 
mony to the consideration in which the famous writer 
held the great Italian interpreter of his works. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 51 


On page 84 of the edition mentioned, which is 
the last scene of ‘‘ The Princess of Bagdad,” there is 
the following note, that is not to be found in the other 
editions : 

“ After having said to her husband, ‘ Iam innocent, 
I swear that lam, Iswearthat lam!’ Leonette, seeing 
that her husband is still incredulous, rises again, 
places her hand on her son’s head, and says a third 
time: ‘I swear that [am innocent!’ ... This noble 
action was not followed in Paris. Neither Mlle. 
Croizette nor I had found it; but it was irresistible. 
The mere line, no matter how potently read, could 
not have carried the same conviction. To the Duse, 
the admirable Italian actress, we owe this beautiful 
inspiration, which I have availed myself of for my 
revised edition, giving the merit and honour to her. 
... 1 have to thank her also, and I am more than 
glad to do it publicly, for having by her influence and 
talent entered two of my plays—‘Claude’s Wife’ 
and ‘The Princess of Bagdad’—in the Italian 
repertoire.” 

Success, glory, fame were beginning to come to 
her. Her art in its originality was a veritable reve- 
lation. Other actresses, who for years had dominated 
the Italian stage, swaying, thrilling, often deceiving 
their audiences, were disarmed before this mere girl, 
this new arrival. The great capitals of Europe, 
Africa and the two Americas accepted the affirmation 
of her greatness. She was proclaimed unique, the 
one actress in the world who was real, who convinced 
without artifice. 

All this glory left the woman unchanged; for 
before her, in her mind’s eye, there was always some- 
thing unattainable, something that perhaps did not 
exist but must be sought for just the same... . 
The far-away summit, invisible to the naked eye, 
Wrapped in mystery and strange light, was her 


~ 


52 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


ultimate goal, the magnet that drew her on and on 
and on. 

“To be stationary in Art is to go back,” was her 
motto; and it was the woman in search of the un- 
attainable who forced the actress to continue 
always the interminable march. . . . The height that 
she had then reached was only the first step of that 
march. No star in the firmament ever rests—so in 
Art there could be no repose ; for the celebrity of to-day 
is not the one of yesterday, nor of to-morrow. 

There came a gradual change in her acting, a subtle 
transformation, due to the intellectual superiority, 
that may or may not have been temporarily detrimental 
to her. 

At the beginning of her success her expression was 
such as one generally sees in nervous disorders, and 
is known to physicians as the nervous face. The eyes 
were agitated by imperceptible nervous tremors; 
the colour changed from scarlet to pallor in a second; 
the nostrils and lips twitched continually; the teeth 
closed together violently, and all the facial muscles 
were constantly moving. The slight body moved with a 
serpentine grace of profound abandon, and synchronised 
perfectly with the actions and contortions of the arms, 
hands, fingers, chest and head.. Owing to this natural 
nervousness she was unrivalled in nervous, hysterical 
parts. 

At this particular time the annoyance, disrespect, 
hatred, fury, jealousy ; the simulation, dissimulation, 
objection, even death, aided in the artistic develop- 
ment of her temperament, much more than sweetness, 
tenderness, resignation, conviction, sincerity, or pain 
could have. 

And the public began to reprove her for possessing 
only one note, for knowing only one type, instead 
of praising her for giving them what she was adapted 
to. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 53 


She knew only one type! She, the woman of 
light and shade, of infinite caprices ; whose slightest 
gesture was worth more than ten lines spoken by 
any other actress before or after her; she of the 
beautiful hands—the hands that played continually 
a rare symphony of movement. ... Yes, she knew 
only one type: the woman who loved and suffered, 
the woman who divined the suffering of others and 
sympathised. . . . Quick in anger, and as quick to 
repent ; whose every sharp word was followed by 
two gentle ones; an idealist, a dreamer, a seeker 
after knowledge ; modest, retired, grand in thought 
and action, with a live brain that for sixty-five years 
was to know no repose from the eternal question Why ? 
—that was the woman a pitiful, stupidly ignorant public 
accused of being able to play only one kind of rdle. 

In Italy, where even the biggest and best-known 
companies do nothing but repertoire, and where no 
play has ever been of sufficient success to run over 
three weeks consecutively, and where generally the bill 
changed every night, there is little chance for an 
actor or actress who is not versatile. 

They must be able and willing to play one night 
a familiar part, and the following night a new one, and 
then only is there hope of success. 

Until 1883 Eleonora Duse toured with a moderate 
amount of success the big cities as well as the provincial 
towns in her own country, always much criticised 
for super-modern methods. 

If at that time her fame and reputation were not 
growing as they should have, her mind was. In every 
city and town that she visited she studied the museums, 
art galleries, libraries, went to concerts and even 
political conferences whenever time would permit. 
Nothing that could increase the culture of the woman 
was left undone. 

In those days it was not an unusual thing to see 


54 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the slight active littl woman, her young expressive 
face aglow with interest, enter almost timidly the 
noted art galleries of Venice, Florence, Rome, or 
Naples, a guide-book in her hand, which before 
starting out on the tour of inspection had been carefully 
read. 

She had not inherited her father’s talent or taste 
for painting, so it was merely her innate sense of the 
beautiful that led her to comprehend the conception, 
technique, and colouring of the works of the great 
masters. 

A writer on the subject of self-culture asserts 
that all this research had over-intensified her character, 
as a culture that had begun too late was bound to do. 

Is that possible ? Can study or culture ever come 
so late in life as to damage in any way the intellect ? 
When a woman has stopped growing physically, and 
her brain is still fresh, not yet having tried its strength, 
it would seem that then, if ever, it should be ready 
to absorb all impressions. 

Until she was a full-grown woman, Eleonora Duse 
had had few advantages and very little book-learning. 
The suffering of youth had opened the hitherto closed 
cells of the brain, showing her wherein she was lacking ; 
gave her the desire for superiority and the will to 
study. That will she retained intact until the last 
days of her life. . . . Yet it was the insatiable thirst 
for knowledge that was her lifelong torment. 

The earliest letters which remain as a proof of the 
depth of her intelligence and culture are those written 
in 1883-4-5, which unfortunately cannot be reproduced 
here as they are the property of an Italian writer ; 
but enough to say that all of them show a thorough 
knowledge and appreciation of her own language, 
and the ability to express herself in writing as well 
as in speaking. At the end of one of the above- 
mentioned letters she wrote : 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 55 


\ 


“ Regarding myself—when I have arrived in the 
full sense of the word, and youth has passed, and to 
the successes hoped for, and obtained, I shall be able 
to put the word ‘ fine,’ I will willingly close my career, 
and take refuge in silence. And with the conviction of 
truth say that in Art—the thought and expression— 
I have put my entire soul.” 


Her absolute lack of vanity and conceit was well 
demonstrated by her unwillingness to autograph a 
photograph. When obliged to sign a picture she 
invariably wrote the name of the character she was 
representing. In 1884 she sent the following letter 
to a friend, accompanied by her photograph : 


“T sign this by the name which is not my own in 
private ife—that, as you know, I think very little of. 
The one I have written on the picture is that of a 
beloved woman, in a beloved part. Do you remember 
it? Lydia di Morance, in ‘ The Wedding Visit.’ A 
month ago to-day I played it in Milan. Time flies! 
Now that I have read what Dumas tells of the poor 
Desclée in that part ’’ (New Review), “* I feel unutterably 
sad, and even discouraged! Certainly I do not com- 
pare with the beloved and much lamented woman 
and actress, but I, a mere stupid-looking little woman, 
whose life is composed entirely of work, in that work 
I have perhaps cried with Lydia . . . speaking through 
Her ups... . Ah me! Art is never satisfying!” 


In 1885 she went with the Cesare Rossi Company 
for a long engagement in South America. An engage- 
ment which proved in more than one way to be a turn- 
ing point in herlife. . . . Flavio Ando, the handsomest 
actor on the Italian stage, was the leading man in 
the company. Though he had known Eleonora from 
the time she joined the Rossi Company until some 


56 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


months before the departure for South America he had 
never thought seriously of her, generally having other 
and bigger fish to fry. But playing continually the 
stage lover, or husband, holding her evening after 
evening in his arms, feeling her heart beat close to his, 
awakened a normal desire in him to have her for 
himself, away from the wide-eyed public, far from the 
deafening applause. 

And she? She had already been married over 
four years to a man whom she had never loved with 
any degree of passion ; therefore it was not a question 
of love being dead, but merely that she was tired 
of him and his constant propaganda—his political 
questions, that had no place in Art. He was the 
father of her little daughter, and a buon diavolo, 
nothing more. 

She had always admired Ando as a wonderful 
specimen of manhood in its perfection : he was cultured, 
naturally refined, elegant, on and off the stage. Women 
everywhere ran after him, not a day passed that he 
did not receive innumerable billet-doux. And Eleonora 
Duse fell in love with the love that she had acted with 
him, enhanced by his physical beauty. 

During the long sea voyage to South America, 
Checchi, who for a long time had suspected that some- 
thing more than a mere friendship existed between 
his wife and Flavio Ando, began watching and spying 
on them, and finally one day, not being able to find 
her in their state-room, or any of the salons, or on 
deck, he went to Ando’s cabin. 

When the two were confronted neither of them 
tried in any way to deny the truth. 

The other members of the company knew of the 
relationship existing between the leading woman and 
the leading man, but, fearing there might be a duel, 
had done all possible to keep the affair from Checchi’s 
notice. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 57 


However, there was no duel, for before they landed 
an arrangement was made between the husband 
and wife. Just what that was no one ever knew 
further than his statement:that he had no intention 
of being made a fool of, and that since she preferred 
Ando to him she was free to do as she pleased, for 
he would not live with a woman who was unfaithful 
to him, even though she was the mother of his child. 

To which it is said that she replied that she loved 
Ando, and had never loved him, and she considered 
his leaving her as good riddance to bad rubbish, for 
she didn’t need him, nor his money, either for herself 
or their child. 

Ando, an inimitable actor, remained her lover for 
a reasonably long period, and her leading man for 
many years. 

In speaking of him only a short time before her 
death Eleonora Duse said : 

“T was young, and all the world knows how beauty 
attracts youth. I was even then a seeker after 
knowledge, but I was also a woman who loved love. 
He was a folly of youth! II était beau, mais il était 
bete ! ” 

Despite the family troubles which unnerved her 
for a time, it was in South America that Eleonora 
Duse began the conquest of world fame that was 
to accompany her to her grave. 

Checchi, owing to his contract, was obliged to 
remain with the Cesare Rossi Company until the 
tour in South America was finished; but when the 
company embarked for Italy he remained in Buenos 
Ayres. 

The theatrical business had brought him only 
disillusions, so he decided to retire from the stage. 
He eventually went into the Consular Service, and 
was Italian Consul in Argentine until his death in 
1920. 


58 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


At that time the Government offered Eleonora Duse 
a pension of three hundred and thirteen pesetos a year, 
the amount that is always allowed a consul’s widow. 
She refused the offer, for in order to have a pension 
from South America she would have had to live six 
months in Argentine. 

At Buenos Ayres every performance was more or 
less an ovation for the Duse. She was appreciated 
as never before, but even the great esteem that was 
shown for her work did not serve in any way to make 
her less conscious of her defects. 

During the illness of Diotti, a member of the 
company, she was forced to play in “ Fedora.”’ For 
five days she had helped to take care of the sick man, 
and going on that evening without him, hearing his 
part played by another, filled her very soul with pity 
and ‘anger. 

“Tt fills me with horror,’ she said bitterly, “ to 
think how easily the place that we have worked so 
hard for can be filled by another. . . . We are vastly 
important to ourselves, and of little consequence to 
the worid—enough that the drama goes on smoothly.” 

The first evening that she played without Diotti 
she felt weak and small, and it seemed to her as though 
her voice could not be heard beyond the stalls. . 
There was continual whispering in the boxes, and a 
sense of dissatisfaction all over the house. Her head, 
like her voice, refused to remain in its place. . . . The 
spectacle over, she changed in a fury, and still more 
in a fury went home. Closed in her room a profound 
sadness filled her being . . . emptiness enveloped her. 

The following day the papers were vague, men- 
tioning that, perhaps owing to the difficulty of the 
language, she had not been heard distinctly. . . . The 
attempt to excuse her weakness annoyed her more 
than frank condemnation would have done. 

The next performance was “‘ Denise.’”’ The theatre, 





| Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 59 


apart from the critics, was practically empty. The 
simple “ Denise ’’ went better. The audience at least 
listened during the first and second acts, and in the 
third their tears mingled with hers. 

Coltin was substituted for Diotti in the part of 
Fernand ; and as she played opposite the actor, new 
to her in that part, she thought continually of the 
sick man—thought until her thoughts became a silent 
prayer of love and sacrifice. 

“Madonna,” she whispered during an interval, 
“grant me this one grace: save the poor man! 
Help us! Oh, do not desert us in our hour of need! 
Save him for his father and mother who are waiting 
at home for his return. ... Take away my art, if 
need be, in exchange for his life—only save him! ”’ 

Two days later Diotti passed away, and the 
bereaved company continued without him. From the 
suffering that she had known near the dying man, 
once more Eleonora Duse, out of the pain for another, 
found her supremacy. 

“ Fernanda ”’ was the first play given after Diotti’s 
funeral. Never before had she felt the strength of 
her will, nor realised that she could so intensely force 
herself on. With heart and soul she played to an 
intelligent climax and the greatest ovation that she 
had ever received. 

When the performance was over, all emotion finally 
calmed, she went alone to her hotel... . Sadly, 
solemnly, she thought in retrospect over the events 
of the past weeks. 

“ After all,’ she said aloud to the silence of the 
night, “life is not vulgar, as I thought—it is merely 
grave.” 

That was a conviction that never left her... . 
She had perfect comprehension of others, marvellous 
bursts of uncontrollable mirth, an unfailing sense of 
humour; with contradictory moods of incredulity, 


60 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


depression and bitter torment; but over and above 
all humours, the individual responsibility, the gravity 
of life weighed. 


After the return from South America many diffi- 
culties confronted the Duse, and not the least of these 
was the payment of her husband’s debts, which with 
a nobility worthy of her she had assumed when she 
left him. 

A turning-point more dangerous than previous 
success had made her believe possible, a period of dis- 
content without visible reason, was before her, and 
growing continually. The problem of getting along 
materially, and the insistent question of paying for 
dead horses, kept her from going ahead as she should 
have. 

She had been away from Italy too long, for the 
fickle public in a sense had forgotten her greatness, 
and had to be conquered again. With Flavio Ando 
as leading man she played continually with sufficient 
success to assure herself that she was wanted in her 
own country, but not needed. 

» Something was wrong inside—she herself was not 
in order, for the ascension, which for a time had been 
rapid, was becoming slower and slower. As an actress 
she seemed to be waiting outside a closed door; the 
deepest mysteries of Art were those yet untried, and 
they were behind the door that she was patiently 
waiting to have opened for her. 

To the best of her ability she began preparing her- 
self to enter into the realm where the treasures that 
she sought were concealed. Her salvation as an 
actress was within herself, within the woman... . 
From then on she applied herself with assiduous 
application to what she considered the rawness of 
her culture... . In due time she became a magni- 
ficent example of auto-didactic. 





| FLAvIo ANDO. 
The Duse’s first leading man. 


‘ 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 61 


During this period of doubly active research for 
hidden treasures she studied untiringly the people 
about her, the most profound books obtainable, Church 
art—sedulously enriching her knowledge day by day. 

Of a prodigious sensibility, rich in natural talent, 
she gradually assimilated a vast patrimony of culture, 
which changed, ennobled, and sweetened the physi- 
ognomy. The bright tint of her skin paled delicately ; 
on the noble brow a new light appeared, the beautiful 
rebellious hair fell back from the forehead like wings 
ready to open, and over the left temple a white mesh 
appeared soft against the intense black. 

On the stage she was still the actress who could 
give life to the most inconsistent figures: where 
there was nothing, she created; the banal phrases 
spoken by others she made unforgettable. 


Several years passed, and she was still waiting to 
find her chemin de Damas. The messenger whom Fate 
was to send never seemed grand enough to decrease 
or increase the early glory. The Duse denied to the 
point of absurdity, even with ingratitude, the precocious 
past. She felt the need of being, wanted to be, 
renovated—renewed ; but was unfortunately without 
a guide in her research, without help to go beyond 
the closed door. 

The love that was waning was of no aid, and even 
the little daughter, whom she loved devotedly, she 
kept most of the time at a distance from her, for fear 
the stage might, even at that early age, call her. 

Maternal love, as well as love of woman for man, 
was insufficient to calm the restless spirit. oe 

In her aloofness she immersed herself completely 
in literature, detrimental to her at that particular 
_ period. Badly digested philosophy saturated the active 
mind, causing it to become a fountain of useless 
dreams. 





62 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The public had begun to show less desire for her; 
there was something monotonous in her acting; the 
critics did not try to hide the fact that they found 
her wandering from the immutable law of scenic truth. 
The net equivocally tightened. With the disdain for 
which she was well known, a disdain that was never 
used except to cover a wound too deep to show, she 
isolated herself in an impregnable silence which was a 
rebuff to the general sympathy of the theatre-going 
public. They in turn began to look upon her as pre- 
sumptuous, even ungrateful. ... Instead, she was 
merely fearful. 

And it was just at that time that she met the well- 
known dramatist, Giuseppe Giacosa, who became 
almost at once her friend and was in time to prevent 
the complete failure of her career. By his sane, intelli- 
gent advice she was saved from abandoning the stage. 
Had they not become friends Eleonora Duse would 
not have gone down in history as the greatest actress 
of the age. 

But in some other walk of life would she not have 
been great ? 

As Enif Robert, for many years a member of the 
Duse Company, has said truthfully: ‘‘ Eleonora Duse 
the woman was far grander than Eleonora Duse the 
actress—grand as the actress was. . Fate had 
destined her to be famous in whatever she did. 
What a queen she would have made—perhaps the 
greatest in all history!” 

Instead she was to keep on acting and acting, for 
with a man’s clear insight, and also vast experience 
of the caprices of the public, Giacosa came to her aid. 
By his intelligent interest and friendly advice she 
emerged from the difficulties surrounding her, stronger, — 
ereater, and fearless. 

From the sealing of her friendship with Giacosa 
dates the beginning of the absolute grandness of the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 63 


actress Eleonora Duse. The superior intellect was 
what she had needed and waited patiently for. This 
friendship lasted with only one interruption until 
Giacosa’s death, and was continued, one might say, 
with his son. | 

There had been a misunderstanding between Eleo- 
nora Duse and Giacosa which caused a break in the 
long friendship that had been gratifying on both sides. 
Knowing the benefit they were to each other, and 
that the rupture had already lasted too long, many 
mutual friends sought to bring about a reconciliation. 
Offended for a reason that she alone knew, she turned 
deaf ears to all appeals, until at length Giacosa’s 
brother, at the end of a long talk with the Duse, 
mentioned casually : 

‘You know I have a brother called Giuseppe 

“Have you, indeed ?”’ the Duse interrupted him 
laughingly. And in that simple way, after innumer- 
able futile attempts, peace was made between the 
two famous friends. 


>) 





From the very simple, scantily-clad little girl, 
in the matter of dress she had become the woman of 
personal intuition. Even at the beginning of her 
success she showed a rare taste in the selection of her 
costumes. The originality of her head-dress in the 
first act of ‘‘ Claude’s Wife ” attracted much attention, 
so much so that to-day it is remembered—yet it was 
nothing more than a dull red silk scarf tied in a bizarre 
manner that gave a satanic appearance to the face. 
In the last act of the same play she was literally 
wrapped in serpent’s scales. ... In ‘“ Camelle” (La 
Dame aux Cameélias) in each of the five acts she wore 
a different costume, always on the white tone: snow, 
silver, ivory, gold, and yellowish old-gold ; the colours 
of the daisy. ... In the four acts of ‘‘ La Porta 
Chiusa’”’ the costumes were white; and so on all 


64 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


through her repertoire: the colour was in harmony 
with the character. 

Off the stage, in private life, she dressed with 
simple elegance, and, when her first youth had passed, 
either in black or white. She felt the cold terribly, 
and generally until the hot weather wore a fur coat. 

Jewellery was not among her passions, though at 

one time she possessed some very beautiful stones— 
many of them presents from crowned heads—which 
she seldom wore, except to please her friends. She 
did not despise jewels, but, as she often said, she con- 
sidered them an unnecessary responsibility—for youth 
needs no adornment, and old age is ridiculous enough 
without calling attention to it by the useless wearing 
of jewels. 
e A very handsome string of pearls, a gift from the 
Spanish Court, was the one ornament that she cared 
for, and that is no doubt explained by the fact that 
she wore them during the reading of “ Francesca di 
Rimini,” the last play d’Annunzio wrote for her. The 
sale of the pearls, which financial losses necessitated 
during the War, was a real grief to her. 

One day Mme. Robert, in a new frock, and wearing 
a modest pendant, a present from her husband, went 
to call on the Duse. 

“ Robertina ’—La Signora, as she was called by the 
members of her company, spoke with more than usual 
sweetness—“ Robertina (her pet name for Enif Robert), 
you look very nice to-day.” 

Mme. Robert, then a young bride, blushed proudly. 

“Your frock is very pretty,” the Duse continued ; 
“your hat is becoming ; but you must not wear that” 
——she touched the new pendant. ‘“‘ One should never 
wear jewellery on the street, or when travelling. For 
your pleasure may arouse envy in those who have no 
jewellery. . . . Very rich clothes and precious stones 
are for the privacy of one’s home, or private social 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 65 


gatherings. . . . Don’t ever forget that, little woman.”’ 
Enif Robert never has. 


A short time before leaving for South America— 
to be exact, January 3rd, 1885—-Count Primoli read 
“ Denise,’ then Alexandre Dumas’ latest play, to 
Eleonora Duse. 

At the beginning of the reading she remained un- 
certain, and until the middle of the third act did not 
know whether to laugh or cry over the exquisite réle, 
the beauty of which seemed to escape her. 

With the confession, the part which decides the 
success of the play, she suddenly changed colour ; 
tears ran down her cheeks. At the details of the 
child’s death she got up impulsively, twisting her hand- 
kerchief nervously, and almost in shame over her 
emotion took refuge behind a_ screen, where she 
remained hidden until the reading was over. 

In a flash of the intuition that she has ever been 
noted for, she had understood the pure type of Denise 
who passes through the play chaste, proud, sweet, 
silent. Under the implacable mask the gnawing 
secret which finally gets away from her is foreseen. 
Denise during the play neither laughs nor cries; 
sometimes she sings in so sad a strain that, though her 
eyes remain dry, tears come to those who watch her. 
... Lhis grand sweet vision must be like Vatican 
bashfulness, so that in a moment the mask can be 
thrown aside and the hidden secret revealed, the heart 
bared to the man she loves. . . . After the confession 
she re-enters within herself forever, and under the 
veil of wifely duty—happy or resigned, it matters 
little which—she returns to the shadows, and the 
silence)... . 

Perhaps “‘ Denise ’’ was the first play to so beautifully 
present good sense in the form of a young woman 


of penetrating charm... in which love, suffering, 
E 


66 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


self-abandon, even death serve to ripen the charm. . . 
The heart from which hope had faded, about to 
rebloom under a new, more charitable love, a heart 
which dares not acknowledge the right to love, so 
closes within itself forever. 

The figure of Denise was the personification of 
Eleonora Duse. With natural enthusiasm she longed 
to create the part immediately, without even taking 
time to study it. She felt instinctively that she knew 
Denise, had already lived in her. 

The situation of a woman at the moment when she 
believes all her trials are over, and only happiness 
awaits her, and instead is confronted by death, had 
been the Duse’s dream of a proper dénouement. With 
the reading of Denise she found the realisation of her 
dream. . . . The knowledge that in a few days she 
could have the manuscript of the play was the greatest 
satisfaction to her pride that she had ever known. 

Confident of a new glory, she lived for five days 
with the vision of the play continually before her. 

She had been ill for some time and only kept up 
by her indomitable courage. On January 8th a sudden 
break came and the doctor’s verdict gave no further 
hope of saving her. She bid farewell to those who 
were near, and though unresigned to death, closed 
her eyes. By pure force of will she again opened them, 
afraid that if they closed it would be for the last 
times 6° 4 

She did not want to die then, she wanted to live— 
to be Denise. 

As from a distance she heard the doctor’s discour- 
aged whisper; with a supreme effort she raised herself 
to a sitting posture, with a superb gesture pointed to 
the door, then fell back wearily, one overcome 
by the strength of her emotion. . Never had she 
held to life as she did that day .. . and she felt that 
life slipping, slipping from her. . 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 67 


The crisis past, Count Primoli wrote to Alexandre 
Dumas : 


“Tf she ever gets up again I’m afraid they will 
force her to play—to play until she falls in her tracks. . 
In a few days she will be on the ‘ boards’ once more, 
if she is not between four boards, which is still possible. 
. She has asked me to give her Denise’s confession 
to keep her company as soon as she can hold her eyes 


open. ...I1 wish she would decide to go to the 
country for a week, in order to regain her strength 
and to study the new part . . . Also in the clear balmy 


air to find again her exquisite voice.” 


And they forced her to play—to play until almost 
forty years later she did drop in her tracks. 


The first qualification for an actress is a pleasant 
voice, a voice with light and shade, a voice that lives 
in one’s memory long after the lines of the play are 
' forgotten. . . . Such was Eleonora Duse’s. Once heard, 
the indefinable something that made it different from 
any other voice in the world remained with the per- 
sistency of tender souvenirs in the reserved cells of 
the heart. It was not bronze, silver or gold: it was 
merely human, the bell of the soul, endlessly musical, 
and shadowed with infinite expression. 

In her youth the voice was thin, with little re- 
source ; short for the outcry, the low notes hard, 
not well placed, and slightly nasal, as it is said the 
great Desclée’s was also. 

As soon as she became conscious of vocal defects 
the Duse began a discipline that in a remarkably short 
time rendered her voice smooth, sweet and penetrating ; 
light as a bird’s singing; note after note of beauty 
coloured by hope, doubt, fear, love, exultation ; with 
the ability to plunge suddenly into deeper tones that 





68 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


never failed to carry suffering upon their dark, slow 
wings. 

Count Primoli still recalls the tone with which 
the Duse pronounced Cesarine’s famous tirade in 
“Claude’s Wife’’: ‘ Are you sure that the children 
which we conceive in sin, and in mystery bring into 
the world, are truly our children ?” 

Eleonora Duse would never admit that a mother, 
no matter who she was, could deny motherhood ; 
and in reading the above lines she even had trouble 
in making the words pass her lips where the 
kisses that she could never give to her dead baby 
were dried forever. So great was the interior force 
put into the reading that she generally produced a 
stuttering effect, like the far-off ringing of a death-knell. 

One evening Prince Napoleon was in a stage-box 
at a certain moment when Cesarine had despaired of 
ever winning back her husband; infuriated, the Duse 
gave one piercing scream that ended on a low, dark, 
mysteriously sweet note. . . . A vision passed before 
the Prince’s eyes ; a vague memory perhaps stirred his 
heart, a name long forgotten came to his lips: 

“Rachel ! ”’ | 

Angelo Conti, one of the greatest Italian phil- 
osophers, passing one evening in a gondola through a 
small canal that cuts into the Guidecca, in company 
with Sem Benelli, called the poet’s attention to an 
old, seemingly abandoned house. 

“ At this very spot, many years ago, on an evening 
similar to this one, I truly heard for the first time the 
grandness of Eleonora Duse’s art.” 

““ She played here ? ’’ Sem Benelli asked, astonished. 
“A fragment of Shakespeare ? ”’ 

“No, Eleonora merely spoke. She raised her voice 
in praise of the spectacle before her. Her thoughts 
and words were as marvellously beautiful as the sur- 
roundings. . . . And her voice, falling on the stillness of 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 69 


the evening, was the most harmonious sound I have 
ever heard. 

“The Duse is such a spontaneous artist, so well 
consecrated, that in no place could her art seem so 
beautiful as before the pureness of Nature. If those 
who admire her had heard the voice as I did, hearing 
it on the stage they would again find in her all the 
wonder of our surroundings, all the mystery of Venice.”’ 

Alfred Kerr tells how Mr. Arthur Collins, at one 
time manager of the Drury Lane Theatre, spoke of 
Eleonora Duse : 

‘ She did a lot for me ’’—Mr. Collins is said to have 
blushed vividly. “I was a silly young ass in those 


days, and a bit too roughly sure of myself. ... By 
the enchantment of her voice she brought me to my 
senses . . . made me better—a man.” 


By the enchantment of her voice—or was it the 
soul behind it that cast itself before, lighting the dark 
places, making others better for its being ? 

In the next few years many thousands will come 
forward to proclaim the wonder of her nature, the 
purity of the soul that knew no rest. Thousands, 
nay, millions, no doubt there are, whose sufferings were 
lessened by her consoling words ; thousands the world 
over who so long as life lasts must ever keep the sacred 
memory of the gentle thrush-like voice. ... And 
blessed indeed are those who have known the touch 
of the divinely beautiful hands, the hands so delicately 
feminine, restless, tender, healing. 


During the long period of waiting and research 
the Duse Company was not even paying expenses, and, 
owing to the poor business, contracts with good 
theatres were difficult to get. Playing to empty houses 
had a depressing effect on the spirit of all the actors; 
discontent was in the air. The Duse was distracted, 
absorbed in dreams—from the uselessness of which 





70 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Giacosa was eventually able to awaken her... . 
While in a state of intense feverish work a new element 
of inspiration came into her life, a spirit mentally so 
superior as to lift her completely out of the lethargic 
condition into which she had fallen to a state of 
exultation that knew no end. 

Arrigo Boito, from the very beginning of his friend- 
ship with Eleonora Duse, constituted himself her intel- 
lectual and spiritual adviser. ... She wanted to 
know everything, and like a miser became jealous of 
the treasures she was storing away in her mind. 

That the field awaiting this cultivation was fertile 
is shown by a letter written in 1886 to an intimate 
friend, from Varazza, where she had gone with her 
little girl for a rest after an illness: 


“ Here I am writing with one hand, and with the 
other giving toys to a lovely little girl whose mother I 
am only for certain hours—the balance of the day I | 
do all in my power to be a child. . . . I have hidden 
myself away in a tiny, tiny house—a mere red shack 
with green shutters—fronting the grand, inexplicable 


sea. . . . Day comes—evening follows—and then again 
the day—after that evening. . . . It’s alla little wheel 
turning under the all-powerfu@regulating sun . . . the 


sun which never changes its place—and neither do I. 

“There are grasshoppers in plenty—a_ beautiful 
grape-vine peeping in at my window—lame dolls— 
horses without saddles or reins—healthy food—no 
pianos, no wordly music—a little, barefooted, white- 
bearded monk comes each day to beg—and that is all 
except peace for the soul, a heartfelt smile for you, 
my baby girl, and a sense of perfect well-being for 
the body that had begun to be moth-eaten at the 
roots.”’ 


Boito as a musician was greater at the time that 





RRIGO BoIToO 


A 


70. 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 71 


they met than the Duse as an actress. He was a 
man with unlimited experience, rich in knowledge of 
the fine arts, cultured, and a gentleman born. He not 
only offered her of his superior intellectual gifts, but 
he aided and upheld her in every branch of research 
and study. The vast artistic temperaments of these 
two grand characters were united spontaneously in 
a rhythmic harmony that brought an immediate and 
everlasting benefit to the most malleable of feminine 
souls. 

From the time of Flavio Ando, Eleonora Duse never 
found any interest in a man for other than his intelli- 
gence, and though after Boito another great love was 
to come—a love that brought the most intense suffering, 
above all to her pride—the greatness and appreciation 
of Boito was to remain the most vital memory of her 
life. 

Never after the famous musician did Eleonora Duse 
find so perfect an equilibrium of active force, never 
again did she have the fortune to find a more precious 
inspiration ; and no other man was ever a more valid 
spiritual support, a firmer guide. 

Her personality became purified under the influence 
of this friendship, a friendship which ripened into the 
most idealistic love. 

The closed door opened before her ; from the thres- 
hold she gazed into the enchanted palace of her dreams, 
saw herself crystalline. The prince in the fairy tale 
had changed the waiting Cinderella into a veritable 
princess, giving her profundity of expression, faith 
in herself, consciousness of her true worth. 

Many strong influential friends and other loves 
were to come into Eleonora Duse’s life; the world 
was to hear of her suffering caused by man’s unfaith- 
fulness, to malign her because she was great; but 
only those who were near, or in her confidence, ever 
knew that the one real sincere love, the grand passion 





72 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


of her life, was the musician of world-wide fame. 
Arrigo Boito was the man who showed her the clear, 
open road, who awakened the divinity of her soul, 
and taught her that the work she was doing was the 
fulfilment of the mission for which she was sent: the 
man whose true worth was not to be proclaimed until 
after his death ; whose “ Nerone,” given at the Scala 
in Milan during the month of May, 1924, was to be 
the greatest musical event in many years. 

Arrigo Boito brought light to the personality of 
Eleonora Duse the woman, just as his great love and 
faith in her put her on the dramatic pedestal, where 
she remained for over thirty years. 

When the glimmer had died down, and the love 
was practically burned out, they returned to the still 
fragrant friendship. Destiny sent them on different 
ways, far apart: to the conquest of new glories for 
her, and to renewed work for him—each taking on the 
journey a tender, vital memory locked away forever 
in the heart’s most secret chamber. 

Only a few years ago, while she was at the Hotel 
Cavour in Milan, the life, rich in experience and palpi- 
tating memories, came to a close. Eleonora Duse had 
been advised of Arrigo Boito’s illness, yet the news of 
his death completely prostrated her. 

Theirs had been a mystic love, untarnished by 
wordly ambitions or vulgar notoriety, and in the 
seclusion of an hotel apartment, alone, she mourned 
him. For three days and nights she neither ate nor 
slept, apparently unconscious of those who served her ; 
she moved mutely about the silent room; and the 
nights were passed in a big armchair before the wide- 
open window, where she sat staring fixedly towards 
the impenetrable sky—her soul evidently lost to all 
earthly surroundings, seeking peace in the mystic 
communion. 

It seems strange that a woman continually in the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 73 


public eye had been able to hide her real sentiments 
from the world; but was it not due perhaps to the 
exquisite reticence of the man whose desire was to 
be the power behind the throne rather than the blatant 
herald of her mundane greatness ? For the man who 
writes of his love-affairs, even though they be with 
famous women, is trespassing on the privacy that is 
not his own, or even that of the world. 

Eleonora Duse was jealous of her private life, 
which she felt belonged to her; and the man who 
protected her woman’s name was the man_ she 
remembered until the end. 


In Jerome K. Jerome’s wonderfully symbolical 
book “ The Passing of the Third Floor Back,’’ immor- 
talised by the magnificent English actor, Sir Johnston 
Forbes-Robertson, the character of the Third Floor 
Back was the Christ of to-day, who lives unobserved 
in our midst. . . . Eleonora Duse, who lived among 
the jealous, gossiping, evil-minded, immoral world of 
the theatre, was the white rose in the field of poppies 
. . . a woman so thoroughly human as to be super- 
human, a woman of intense passions, divinely simple 
—a perfect example of the Golden Rule. And it was 
that divine trait in her character that accounts for 
her interest in young, or unknown, playwrights, many 
of whom owe their position, their success, to her. 

Never able to forget her own early struggles, she 
was quick to offer the help that she herself had been 
denied. No manuscript sent to her was ever returned 
unread, and many times she collaborated practically 
in the re-writing of a play that to her seemed worthy 
of presentation. 

In 1890, Marco Praga, then slightly known, wrote 
_ “La Moglie Ideale ”’ (‘‘ The Ideal Wife ’’), with the secret 
ambition of having the Duse play it. 

She was doing a short season in Turin. Praga 





74 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


full of hope, left Milan with the cherished manuscript. 
Through the intervention of her leading man and owing 
to her predilection for young writers, she consented 
to Praga’s reading the play to her. 

In the august presence of “‘ La Divina,” the young 
author was nervous and read the three acts through 
scarcely taking the necessary breathing-space. 

“T like the play ’’—Eleonora Duse smiled kindly, 
amused by the man’s nervousness, and interested in 
the play—‘‘ but I must hear it once more before being 
able to give you a valuable opinion. Come to me 
again in a couple of days, and I will tell you precisely 
what I think of your work.” 

The first reading had evidently been sufficiently 
satisfactory. The scrupulous attention with which 
the Duse had followed the play, the interest shown in 
her expressive face, and the demand for a second 
reading convinced Praga that his day as a playwright 
was about to dawn. 

Two days later, slightly Sales he awaited the 
sentence to be pronounced on “ La Moglie Ideale.”’ 

After praising the young writer, who, according 
to American critics would never have been anything 
if it had not been for her, the Duse said impulsively : 

“You must rewrite the third act. I feel the play 
with a third act so—so-—and so And in minute 
detail, scene by scene, she reconstructed the act as 
her sensibility told her it should be. 

As she talked Marco Praga’s eyes brightened with 
satisfaction, joy and assurance. The master hand was 
there to guide him, and he could not fail. When 
she had finished talking he bounded to his feet. 

“Yes, yes! you’re right, signora! Of course you 
know more about it than I do, and naturally have the 
correct idea! I’ll change it exactly as you suggest ! 
How—how can I ever thank you! ”’ 

Marco Praga never arrived at any greatness, but 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 75 


Eleonora Duse’s friendship for him was certainly the 
means of making him known as a playwright. He is 
a charming man, and was a loyal friend, and worthy 
of the high honour which has come to him through her 
—but more of that later. 7 

It was the dinner hour when Praga reached his 
hotel. Without even thinking of food he hurried 
directly to his room, and in a frenzy began to write. 
. . . Day was creeping in at the tightly-closed windows 
when the third act of ‘‘ La Moglie Ideale ”’ was finished. 

The Duse gave an unusual amount of affection to 
the interpretation of that play, which turned out to 
be a most significant success for her, as well as the 
Italian theatre of that time. 

Marco Praga during the rehearsals of “‘ La Moglie 
Ideale ” became an intimate friend of the Duse; perhaps 
preferring the constancy of friendship to the dis- 
illusions of love, he remained her simple friend until 
the last. Knowing her as he did, he tells many fas- 
cinating anecdotes of the private Eleonora. 

Once at Trieste he found her alone in the hotel, 
at her dinner hour. She was sitting on the floor of 
her salon, her back against the wall. A tea-tray was 
on her knees, and great tears were dropping on to 
her plate. 

“ What in the world is the matter ? ’’ Praga asked 
anxiously. ‘‘ Has something gone terribly wrong ? ”’ 
He pictured all kinds of horrors, and was preparing 
himself to cry with her. 

“No, nothing’s the matter,’’ she smiled radiantly 
through therain. ‘‘ I just remembered about Odette !”’ 

“ What?” 

“ T’m doing Odette this evening, and you know that 
if I don’t unburden myself a bit, during the fourth 
act I shall cry too much—and I’m afraid the audience 
might make fun of me. . . . Odette is a professional 
weeper, but—I must not ride a good horse to death! 





76 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The fourth act has always bothered me! For if I 
haven’t the time to cry beforehand I can’t play it!” 

In 1890 she was gay, full of the joy of living; the 
past, to all outward appearances, forgotten. The future 
yet untried was only waiting to augment her glory— 
not from a worldly point of view, for the fame and 
ovations were never her real life, they were merely 
the means to the end. Glory brought her money ; 
money enabled her to increase the importance of her 
productions, and the value of her work—work in turn 
permitted her to put aside enough for her to retire to 
the quiet that in her heart she longed for. 

The oldest flower-vendors at the foot of the Spanish 
Stairs, Piazza di Spagna, Rome, recall the “ grand 
little lady,’’ always dressed in white, who often came 
as early as eight o’clock in the morning, while they 
were still unpacking their wares, to buy violets... . 
How gaily she laughed over their respectful pleasantries, 
her eyes flashing, the beautiful white teeth sparkling 
in the bright morning sun. 

Like a schoolgirl she would run up the wide stone 
steps; at the top pause to gaze over the only half- 
awakened city; then dash down again, a faithful 
friend in her wake, or more often alone. . . . In the. 
Piazza she would also stop to gossip again, sometimes 
with an old cabby, or a couple of ragged children, it 
mattered not who —the kind word and smile were for 
those who needed them, a tiny ray of her own privi- 
leged sunshine for all who lived in darkness. . . . Her 
pain and suffering, like the poor, she had with her 
always ; but that was for the silence and the solitude. 
Her joy was for the world... . 

And blessed indeed are those who heard the Duse 
laugh. It was a soft trill in which there was the 
freshness of the Spring that she had never known. It 
gave one the desire to be gay; irresistibly communicated 
a sense of flowers and perfume to the air. 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 77 


But frequently in between the laughter there was 
the faint delicate echo of a sob, for, though she would 
never say so, she was passing through a period of 
material disillusion; adding torment to torment. 
. . . At that time the dream of the theatre at Albano 
was born. The dream that, despite the influential 
persons who became interested in it, was unfortunately 
never to become a reality. 


Continually endeavouring to enrich her already 
vast repertoire, vociferously acclaimed in every city, 
adding triumph to triumph, glory upon glory, Eleo- 
nora Duse finally arrived at the pinnacle of her success. 
The world was ready to proclaim her greatness—the 
world wanted her. . . . Vienna, Berlin, Moscow, Petro- 
grad, London and New York—even Paris called. 

Big managers wrote offering her engagements every- 
where ; and Schurmann, the French manager who had 
seen her when he was in Italy with the Bernhardt, 
came again to offer a tour of the great European 
capitals... . The little Italian with only a bit of 
talent, as she had spoken of herself, had become the 
great tragedienne, and was being implored to listen 
to the plea of a foreign manager; to heed the voices 
of the world outside the confines of her own beautiful, 
beloved country ; the voices that were calling, and 
calling for her... . 





78 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


PART II 


The Triumph at Vienna, 1892—Other European Triumphs—Berlin 
—London— New York— Meeting with d’Annunzio— The 
Woman in Her Rare Moments of Ease—The d’Annunzio Propa- 
ganda—Other Successes Abroad—Paris—Life and Work 
Until the Closing at Vienna, February, 1909. 


“SHE is always different, like a cloud that from 
second to second seems to change before your very 
eyes without your seeing the change. Every move- 
ment of her body destroys a harmony, and creates 
another more beautiful. You beg her to sit down, 
to remain motionless, and over and above the immo- 
bility a torrent of obscure force passes as thoughts 
pass from the eyes. .. . Do you understand? The 
expression is the life of the eyes, this indefinable some- 
thing more potent than any word or sound ; infinitely 
profound, yet instantaneous as a flash of lightning, 
even more rapid than lghtning—innumerable, all- 
powerful : summed up—the expression. Now imagine 
this expression diffused through her body. Do you 
understand ? A movement of the eyelids—the face 
is transfigured and expresses immense joy and pain 
to you. The eyelashes of the beloved being are lowered, 
shadows surround you as a river surrounds an island; 
the eyelashes are raised, the heat of summer burns 
the world. A new movement of the eyelids, your soul 
dissolves into a drop: again you believe yourself 
King of the Universe. . . . Imagine her body enveloped 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 79 


in this mystery! Imagine every part of her, from 
the crown of her head to the soles of her feet, an appari- 


tion of fulmineous life. . . . Could you sculpture the 
expression! ... The ancients made their statues 
sightless. . . . Now imagine, all of her body is like 


the expression. .. . 
‘GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO.”’ 


In 1892, the year of the International Theatre 
and Art Exhibition at Vienna, on an improvised stage 
of exceptional elegance, dramatic and lyric companies 
from every country and in every language alternated. 
. . . Lhe Comédie Frangaise, The Hungarian National 
Theatre, The Praga Opera. Czeca, The Compagnia 
Goldoniana,under the management of Giacinto Gallina ; 
and last, but not least, an admirable company of the 
Stagione d’Opera Italiana, presented by Sozogno, who 
offered to the vastly interested public the best musical 
works of the then Young Italy. Italy had the honour 
of figuring most brilliantly at the memorable Exhibition ; 
but despite the triumphs of Mascagni and Benini, 
who carried away the “‘ Palm ”’ for Italy, despite the 
fact that the opera was well attended, the gigantic 
expenses of the season exceeded the receipts, and the 
Exhibition closed with a deficit. 

Among the many who ardently desired to take 
part in the International events, there was an Italian 
actress, already celebrated in her own country, in 
Russia, Spain, and South America, but unknown in 
Germany, and, unfortunately, unheard of to the 
Exhibition committee, who, in that case, were unequal 
to the grave responsibility imposed upon them. 

Eleonora Duse gently knocked on the door, and 
was immediately refused admittance. Conscious of 
her personal worth and strength, she retained her 
courage and insisted upon entering. 

On February 2oth, a short time before the opening 





80 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


of the Exhibition, the Duse, well supported by Flavio 
Ando, and other excellent actors, opened at the 
Carltheatre in the ‘‘ Signora dalle Camélie”’ (“‘ Camille’). 

The few people who were fortunate enough to be 
at that performance remembered the evening ever 
after... . The theatre was scarcely half filled, for 
the innumerable idolators that Eleonora Duse eventu- 
ally had in Vienna at that time did not even know 
her name. 

It seems impossible to believe that an actress 
already famous in more than one country could be 
unheard of in one of the greatest centres of European 
culture, in a city where theatrical history was never 
parva pars. Nor did the Duse—who was always against 
unnecessary publicity, other than the echo that 
emanated from her art—think of having the public 
prepared for her coming. 

She was frankly discouraged when she saw the 
empty house, but more than ever determined to. 
conquer the city that she had come to—more to gratify 
her manager than for her own pleasure. 

After the first act there was a moderate amount 
of applause. The new way of hearing lines read, the 
woman who moved as no other actress until then had 
ever moved on any stage, left the audience coldly 
stupefied. 

During the second act, after the scene of the recon- 
ciliation with Armand, which the Duse never failed 
to interpret with sublime affection, stupefaction 
changed to admiration, and the applause became 
warmly unanimous. From the third act until the end 
of the drama, after the big scenes, especially those 
with Duval—the meeting with Armand at the ball, and 
Marguerite’s death—the enthusiasm of the audience 
increased, until at the final curtain it was nothing short 
of an ovation. 

The harmony of her talent, it has been said, lay 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 81 


perhaps in the contrasts. . . . One heard the melody 
and the accompaniment singing in her at the same 
time. She had the art of saying one thing, and letting 
the public understand that she was thinking another. 
. . . she excelled from the beginning until the end 
in representing the dual personality, in marvellously 
complicated shades. 

One account of her ‘‘ Camille ”’ shows the difference 
between her rendering of Marguerite Gautier, and that 
of the other great actresses, and explains the success of 
February 20th, 1892, before a stolid, German-speaking 
audience, to whom the musical Italian language must 
indeed have sounded strangely unreal. 

“ The Duse plays the drama with her temperament. | 
The only reproach that some might make is that her 
Marguerite is not a Parisian courtesan, but merely a 
simple woman in love. What she loses in local 
value she gains a hundredfold in universal human 
value. . . . Marguerite is in reality at the beginning 
of the drama a light, careless woman who does not 
love ; life means nothing to her—she burns the candle 
at both ends, speaks rapidly, without giving thought 
to her words. ... But the moment that Armand’s 
voice has touched her heart, all is changed: she 
speaks slowly, a new existence has opened for her— 
she lives, and longs to know the joy of loving, and of 
being loved. . . . And when at lengthshe gives the 
flower to Armand, in the very delicacy of the offering 
Marguerite gives him her heart as well. 

“In the second act, when she reads under the lamp 
the letter from Armand, with the old Count looking on, 
her face does not express the slightest emotion, but 
an almost imperceptible trembling of the knee reveals 
the agony that she is passing through, the devastated 
state of her soul. 

“When she leaves Armand Duval, whom she never 
expects to see again, instead of the conventional kiss 

F 


82 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


on the brow (which was what the other actresses had 
given before her) she kissed him on the lips, leaving 
her great love there, stronger than all that must come 
between them. . . . Sure that the regret of her caresses 
is still fresh—and will remain so—she goes to find 
Count de Varville again. 

“ The fifth act, in which Armand returns, is a poem 
of truth. No one could ever fully appreciate the 
wonder of her acting unless they had seen her when 
she takes the precious letter from under the pillow 
where, like a sick person who passes her life in bed, 
she keeps it; half lying, her head on the pillow, 
she begins reading aloud; her hand from time to time 
drops from weakness ; then, like a school-girl, she recites 
the letter that, having read and re-read, she knows 
by heart. 

‘Without adding a word to the original text, or 
in any way changing the author’s idea, she gains 
a telling effect, by the Shakespearian vision so 
subtly introduced. . . . When she plans the trip with 
Armand, she stops abruptly: the horrible vision of 
death suddenly comes between them; its reflection 
is in her frightened expression and terrified attitude. — 
... She sees the Grim Monster come out from 
behind the bed-curtains, she sees him slipping stealthily 
close to the wall—she follows, him with horrified eyes, 
accompanies him to the door, and not until she believes 
that he has passed the threshold does she resume their 
interrupted project. . . . She has begun to have hope 
again, when without warning she falls back on the 
pillows. . . . Flat on her back, she seems to be trying 
once more to grasp the happiness within her reach, 
to be holding on to life—with her arm about her 
newly-made husband’s neck. Then by a simple gesture, 
a slight movement of the frail, beautiful hand falling 
on the coverlet, does one know that death has truly 
come.”’ 


soos PAN EOD SU Tea 





Se 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 83 


For the second performance at Vienna, on the 
evening of February 23rd, the house was entirely sold 
out. From the magnanimous suffering of Marguerite 
Gautier to the feline bursts of Fedora she passed with 
the perfection that established her forever among 
the elite Viennese theatre-goers ; and the death scene, 
which she rendered in an entirely original manner, 
brought the vast audience, as one person, to its feet 
in a prolonged “ Bravo!” 

A critic wrote : 

‘““When she begins to feel the effect of the poison 
she accelerates her speech, like a person who has 
much to say and only a short time to say it; then, 
somewhat like a bull in the ring who drops from the 
death-blow, she falls on her knees before her lover, 
the outstretched arms already stiff, as though in dying 
she were pleading for pardon.” — 

For the third evening, Ibsen’s ‘“‘ The Doll’s House,” 
the theatre, even to the standing room, was sold out 
several hours before the performance. . . . In those 
long-ago days it is said that Eleonora Duse had a 
special repugnance for Ibsen, and that she considered 
him as a “ vain agitator of shadows,’’ and that she 
gave “‘ The Doll’s House’ very much against her will 
in order to satisfy her insistent annoying counsellors. ... 

The morning after the first performance of ‘‘ The 
Doll’s House” in Milan, in 1890, despite her personal 
success, as well as that of the play, she is supposed to 
have been very indignant over the fact that, owing 
to the sudden illness of Flavio Ando, her leading man, 
an understudy would have to go on that evening— 
making a rehearsal necessary of “‘ quell ’orrible mattone 
norvegese ”’ (that horrible mad Norwegian). 

To me it seems incredible that the grand Duse, 
who appreciated so fully the greatness of Ibsen, could 
ever, even at thirty, have spoken disparagingly of an 
author whose work she revered at fifty, not as a 


84 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


momentary caprice, as so often happened with her, 
but much as one reverences something holy. 

Her rebellious Nora, so diverse from the other two 
characters, added another laurel to the generous 
wreath that Vienna had crowned her with. . . . The 
fourth, and last of the engagement, was a repetition of 
“ Camille.” | | 

The same year she played two other short seasons 
at Vienna, giving twenty-eight performances in all, 
with unheard-of receipts, considering that the greater 
part of the audience understood very little Italian. 

During her second season in Vienna, May and June, 
1892, she presented ‘‘ Odette” for the first time in 
that city. 

As Mme. Réjane, the superb lamented French 
actress (to many French people superior to the great 
Sarah), whose vital and modern talent is said to have 
been the nearest approach to that of the Duse, stated, 
in “ Odette,’ when the Count comes to ask her 
consent to their daughter’s marriage—the daughter 
who had been taken away when she was small— 
the Duse gave a bit of acting that had never been 
equalled on any stage. In reply to the Count’s 
demand : | 

“A daughter? Have Ia daughter ? I she 
said it with a dryness that was intended to hide the 
profound suffering. ‘“‘ Perhaps I have had a daughter, 
but she has been dead a long, long time!” . . . The 
icy words passed the maternal lips with difficulty, 
and then they closed, softly sending a kiss into space. 
... When the father consents to her seeing the 
daughter again on certain conditions, which he enu- 
merates, she no longer listens, permitting him to give 
his reasons, accepting all; enough that she is to see 
her child. . . . She becomes transfigured, she radiates 
joy. ‘‘ Bérengére!”’ she is going to find Bérengére 
once more—what does the rest matter! She murmurs 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 85 


the beloved name twenty times in succession, smiling, 
eyes misty, tears in her voice. On the immobile 
face one follows Bérengére’s entire existence—sees 
the baby at her breast, in her arms, on her lap; she 
rocks her, jumps her up and down; she laughs and 
cries with the child. Then suddenly: “ Bérengére ! ”’ 
a long-drawn broken sigh—the heartrending lament 
of the first act returns to one—the mother whose 
child has been rudely torn from her. Then, after 
along pause, the void—“ Bérengére !’’ a vague whisper. 
Where is she, what is she now? And then “ Béren- 
gere ! ’’ pronounced with admiration as the apparition 
comes before her of a tall, beautiful young girl. Then 
the passionate cry—at last her turn has come: “ Béren- 
gére!°’ And her husband has finished the listing of 
his conditions, without her having heard a word. In 
a blissful dream, with eyes half closed, she murmurs 
once more: “ Bérengére ! ”’ 


In September, 1892, the world-famous Tomasso 
Salvini said, in speaking of the Duse’s triumphs at 
Vienna: 

“The only thing that she has to lean on, and that 
in a way accounts for her unprecented successes in a 
scant repertoire, is an exaggerated bundle of nerves ; 
for the Duse does not possess even the first principle 
of Art, but her marvellous character makes her express 
well what to others would necessitate a profound 
study. 

“‘Inexpressing the passions of a neurasthenic woman 
no actress can surpass her. It is a pity that her 
external qualities, especially the short range of voice, 
oblige her to keep to a limited repertoire.” 

That was in 1892, when her foreign successes were 
still moderately limited, as was her repertoire. .. . 
Salvini was grand in his time, but he was of the old 
ranting school, as is his son, Gustavo, and to a slight 


86 Eleonora Duse: : The Story of Her Life 


degree his grandson, Sandro, while she was, and 
remained so to the end, of a unique school—her own. 

In order to get properly into a part she always 
prepared her réle alone, in concentrated solitude, 
instead of constantly rehearsing on the stage with 
the other actors. She took the personage into her 
innermost being, giving herself a continual and intense 
work. She studied the character, sounded, and re- 
made it a thousand times, assimilating it so well that 
afterwards she only had to return to her fancy to 
produce the complete living illusion. . . . And of every 
play she had at least ten copies, one of them always 
near at hand, where even in the midst of a conversa- 
tion she could, if it came to her, jot down a new idea 
that later would help in the perfection of the interpre- 
tation. Thus all her manuscripts were marked and 
remarked with minute suggestions for the other parts, 
as well as her own. 

She gave herself heart and soul to a creation, the” 
remarkable intelligence the fuel that supplied the 
grand furnace from which the communicative flame 
spread over the entire theatre in vast magnetic waves. 

. A personage created by Eleonora Duse became 
the word made. flesh. And never, from Juliet 
to Bianca Querceta, in “ ‘La Porta Chiusa,” her last 
performance, did she act a part: she lived it. 

On more than one occasion a theatre with every 
seat sold remained dark, because she was not in the 
frame of mind to enter into the character of the play 
billed for that evening—and she refused to cheat the 
public by merely acting. 

Certainly the stage has never known a more con- | 
scientious actress, nor a woman who so sacrificed herself 
or gave so freely of her divine gifts to the world; for 
to me, as I think to all who knew her personally, in 
Eleonora Duse the actress—as well as the woman— 
there was an indefinable something that was not quite 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 87 





of this world, that put her above all human beings, 
kept her apart, even when she herself might have desired 
human nearness. . . . The world stood ever in awe 
of her, afraid to offer love lest it be unworthy of her 
acceptance, and perhaps for that very reverence in 
which she was held she was often misunderstood— 
she who longed so intensely to understand, whose 
noble words and thoughts brightened many, many 
lives, tortured herself continually because of her 
inability to know all things and people. 

To excel in the art of acting it is undoubtedly a 
help to descend, as the Duse did, from actors; for in 
them there is the innate gift of creation, so that the 
author only has to supply the canvas for the actor’s 
finishing-touch. 

Eleonora Duse’s most striking successes were in 
plays where the character was little more than indi- 

cated, and never subordinate to conventional acting. 
’ . .. The theme rarely bothered her: enough that the 
play had life; the obstacles to be overcome merely 
served to redouble her powers, for she cancelled the 
defects instead of underlining them as another actress 
less talented might have done, and by the force of 
her will carried the play to fame. 

One could never accuse her of having a system, 
for, as I mentioned before, she did not belong to any 
other than her own school. She was individual, she 
imitated no one, and it would have been difficult to 
fice er... 

Almost all theatrical stars, especially in Italy, in 
order to receive the greatest applause, endeavour 
to make their entrance during an expectant pause ; 
on the contrary, the Duse did all that was possible to 
appear on the stage unobtrusively. She was always 
contented to be unobserved, or when recognised to 
hear, ‘Is that it!” in a disappointed tone, for when 
she spoke, or made a simple gesture or slight movement, 





88 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life | 


the “‘it’’ became instantly someone, and in turn the 
someone everything, until nothing else on the stage 
or in the theatre existed. 

The fascination which she exercised was due in 
part to the mobility of her physiognomy, which gave 
the spectator a varied and continually renewed 
spectacle. 

Seeing her play the same part several times, it 
was interesting to note certain changes in the gestures, 
intonations ; exterior signs of a deeper modification : 
in other words, she did not limit herself to keeping the 
personality to the original conception—a mere shade 
of difference called forth by certain vibrations due to 
the mood, or reflection, of the soul’s colour. 

This, one might say, exaggerated temperament 
had a certain influence on the public, for one could 
never be sure, especially during the early years of 
her career, of seeing her on a good evening; and that 
uncertainty for a time, particularly in Italy, was the 
cause of the poor business done by the Duse Company. 

. Later she had more control of her nerves, and 
less irregularity was noted; but she never reached 
the insensibility that Diderot always wished the actress 
might have. 

Even Madame Bartel, who seemed to have found 
a perfection where nervousness had no further influence, 
said: “ The quality of emotion put into a réle varies 
each day, for so much depends upon my mental and 
physical condition. Nothing is more intolerable than 
not to feel anything of the part. That happens to me 
rarely, but each time that it does I suffer a certain 
humiliation, almost a personal degradation.” 

“ She is perfectly right ! ’’ the Duse exclaimed when 
she received this confidence. ‘There are times 
when there is nothing more humiliating in life than 
the absolute knowledge of being inferior to one’s 
reputation. ’’ 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 80 


It is said also that the great Ellen Terry, despite 
her exquisite reserve, her chaste tenderness, gentle 
grace and impeccable taste, admitted more than once 
that she was not sufficiently mistress of herself to 
entirely dominate her acting. . . . Why then should 
one be surprised that Eleonora Duse, with her Southern 
temperament, suffered from the light and shade of 
moods ? 

A constant series of triumphs such as the Duse’s 
in Vienna and Berlin—Eugene Zabel, one of the best 
German critics, wrote in 1893—perhaps no other actress 
had ever had. In the musical world it was not unusual 
for the public to acclaim a foreign celebrity, but for 
the drama it was unheard of. . . . So great was her 
success that the critics were at a loss to find 
words of sufficient praise, and, being unable to find 
defects in her acting, some of them went so far as to 
state modestly that they would like to study her 
scnool... . . 

Of all the foreign cities visited by the Duse Vienna 
was her preference, because, as she herself stated, 
without any advance notice she was immediately 
understood, and in Vienna she had her first great 
success outside her own country. ... From 1892 
to 1909 she played there sixteen times, giving in all 
100 performances. 


On the evening of December 4th, 1894, a few minutes 
before going on in “ The Parent’s House,’ Eleonora 
Duse wrote the following letter to Sudermann : 


“Your Magda has worked for ten years. She who 
writes has worked for twenty. 

“The difference is tremendous, if one calculates 
that it is the question of a woman, and of a woman who, 
contrary to Magda, counts the days that must pass 
before she can leave the theatre. 





90 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“Magda had seventeen years at home. She who 
writes has never had a home. At fourteen they put 
her in long dresses, and they said: ‘ You must act.’ 

“There is a slight difference between the two 
women ! 

“However, Magda belongs to you, as she is your 
creation ; the other lives and goes her way like all 
the rest of the world. . . . But she wants simply to 
thank you, and to tell you of her gratitude, because 
it was thanks to your ‘ Parent’s House’ that she - 
gladly accepted the responsibility of this evening.”’ 


And though she had gladly accepted the play, she 
was never convinced by it. The characters interested 
her, as the various situations and interpretations of 
great actors can interest an audience. . . . She gave 
an immediate personal touch to Magda—a part well 
known to the Germans, and frequently played by their 
great actress, Agnes Sarma. . . . Despite the unavoid- 
able comparisons at the end of the performance the 
Duse was saluted as the greatest among the great. 

Later in Bucharest the first performance met with 
little enthusiasm, and proportionately small receipts. 
The second evening the prices were reduced, uselessly. 

A poor season was foreseen, owing to the many 
unfortunate events that were taking place at that 
time: the wheat crop had been poor, and as that 
was the principal source of income the theatre public 
remained at home, or those who did go out were not 
inclined to pay the prices necessary to see the Duse. 
The death of the manager of the National Theatre, 
where they were playing; and the death of Prince 
Ghika, a high personality of the place ; the serious illness 
of the Prince, heir apparent, which kept the entire 
population uneasy, accounted for the disastrous 
business. 

The Duse was seriously worried, not only for 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 1 





financial reasons, but because of the continual sad 
events taking place. . . . The Continental Hotel where 
she was staying was opposite the theatre, and she 
could not even look out the window without seeing 
the mourning flag flying. 

Everything in Bucharest that should have appeared 
gay, picturesque, interesting, even beautiful, seen in 
the time of patriarchal wealth, seemed painful and 
grotesque. 

The men in their white linen trousers and tightly- 
pleated white skirts coming out from under Italian 
peasant jackets; the old battered hats that suggested 
the Ghetto; many-coloured festoons and strange 
signs ; merchandise of every known specie; costumes 
of every country; worthless old books ; embroidered 
pieces of rare value, together with old clothes, and 
furs of various qualities—all piled high on benches. 

Street cries, invitations to look and buy. . 
Filth everywhere—and further on the disgusting 
market full of salt meat, thrown carelessly on greasy 
counters ; enormous blocks of salt, nauseating odours 
of unclean things and places. . . . Effeminate voices 
of eunuchs calling—boldly relating the stories of 
marriage one day and divorce the next; how wealth 
was acquired by debts and worse ; where honour is as 
false as the luxury. And certain hotels where the most 
corrupt corruption penetrates . . . the real world of 
sin where redemption had not entered in—all tended 
to generate a speciality of tightening of the heart 
and repugnance that no sumptuousness, nor grand 
edifice such as the Law Courts, or the New Post Office, 
could efface ; nor the shadowed gardens of the gigantic 
hotels, nor the unending promenade, Chaussée Chiseleff, 
where the luxurious carriages drawn by marvellous 
stallions with floating manes, such as were not to be 
seen in any other European city—the stupefying flame 
like sunsets . . . nothing—nothing could take away 





92 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the bad taste of the corruption. . . . No other city 
in the world in 1894 presented so strong a contrast 
of savageness and refinement, wealth and poverty, 
slovenliness and elegance ; nor was any other place 
at once so Oriental and so French. 

On the day of Prince Ghika’s funeral the serious- 
ness and uselessness of life-long struggles seemed to 
occupy the Duse’s spirit, and she was heard con- 
tinually to say: ‘‘ The last performance, gentlemen, 
will be to-morrow.’’ And yet that evening she was 
in perfect form as in the best of seasons, and in her 
most perfect vein interpreted “‘ The Parent’s House ”’ 
to a more than contented audience, who after the third 
act were deliriously enthusiastic. 

The two following evenings there was no perform- 
ance, merely rehearsals at the Duse’s hotel. The 
second evening she was deliciously gay, joking with 
all the actors, and seemed to have entirely recovered 
from the depression of the preceding days. . . . The 
first sense of aversion had passed, the taut nerves 
of all the Italian company were calmer, and with a 
certain serenity the unusualness of the “‘ young capitol ”’ 
was being appreciated. 

But the performance of “ Claude’s Wife,” the third 
of the Bucharest season, was not to be numbered among 
the fortunate ones, even though the evening before 
everything had looked so bright. 

The Duse, for some unknown reason, was in an 
exhausted state and seemed to have lost all intellectual 
and sensual energy. She literally dragged herself 
on the stage, arms hanging limply, as though she had 
not the strength to raise them. The eyes which should 
have been animated during the acting remained lustre- 
less, vague, inattentive. Of all the cast Cesarine was 
the least important. . . . In the second act, with the 
theatre filled with an attentive audience ready and 
willing to acclaim the great actress, the scene with the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 93 


maid, while she is serving the coffee, the scene which 
was generally so delicious, she cut entirely. The scene 
with Antonio, where the formidable actress should have 
been revealed, she merely spoke in a_ half-hearted 
manner. Even the big scene with Rebecca and Claude 
passed unnoticed, and so on until the end; and the 
death, for which many had especially waited, the scene 
that never failed to bring frantic applause, and which 
she played as it is said no other actress ever had, fell 
flat. . . . After she had received the wound she would 
turn suddenly, raise her arms, let the stolen papers 
drop, and, with the body almost rigid, fall face down- 
wards. That evening she went through the usual 
motions, but there was nothing to distinguish her 
from any ordinary actress. Nothing! Nothing but 
a few little actions, good enough in their way, during 
the progress of the scene with her husband. 

And the audience, after a faint desultory applause, 
in silence filed out of the theatre, wondering why 
they had spent their money to hear the mediocre 
Italian actress. 

Yet some time later she had one of the greatest 
successes of her career in that same city, in the great 
d’Annunzio play, ‘‘ La Gioconda.”’ 

What the trouble was that evening, what had 
unnerved her, and sapped her strength, not even the 
company knew, or understood, and least of all the 
leading man, Luigi Rasi. Thatsomething was materi- 
ally wrong they all felt, for she had not even gone on 
the stage ten minutes before the curtain to see if all 
was in order, as was her unfailing custom. 

The details of the scene had always been her 
constant study, and, from the time that she became 
a leading lady, she had never allowed the curtain to 
rise on the first night of any play in a new city without 
first assuring herself that the ‘‘ props’”’ were in perfect 
order. 





94 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


For ‘“ Claude’s Wife ” at the Niccolini Theatre in 
Florence, she found one evening a plaster statuette 
of Venus on the safe at the back of the scene. 

“No, no, no! that can’t stay there! ”’ she cried. 
“A Venus in Claude’s house! Claude’s!—a great 
mechanic, a rigid, rude, austere man! We must 
have something solid like he is! Bronze! Anything 
bronze !—a bronze bust! Socrates! No, there is no 
Socrates? Youhaven’t one in the theatre ? Nothing ? 
In any case take this away. It’s quite impossible. 
Take it away! That’s it. Much better not to have 
anything, than a jarring note. Think of a dancing 
Venus in the house of a philosopher like Claude! 
What are you stage hands trying to do to me?” 

Then when an imitation bronze bust was discovered : 

“Bravo! That’s better, much better! So! Every- 
thing must be in harmony. Everything! So!” she 
put it in place. “‘ An historian, an orator, a warrior ! 
So! All right !—now hurry with the curtain!” 

Another evening, at the same theatre, they were 
giving ““ Hedda Gabler.’”’ Before the second act she 
threw a small book angrily on to the table and began 
measuring the stage with long, excited, nervous steps, 
and finally burst out: 

“Not that stupid book! Not that. An album. 
A big album with photographic views! Doesn’t one 
of the stage hands, or at least the manager, know that ? 
Is this the first time ‘ Hedda’ has been given ?”’ Then, 
turning to the leading man : 

“ Signor Rasi, comehere! You are intelligent’ (it 
was not said to flatter him) ; ‘ you willhelpme ? Look 
what they have given me ! ”’ she picked up the offending 
book and flung it across the stage. ‘I must have 
a big album! Do you understand ? For the scene 
at the table with George Loevborg. Have you perhaps 
something suitable ? Do look among your belongings ! 
Try to help me? ”’ 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 95 


Rasi reassured her, took a carriage, and hurried to 
his home. In ten minutes’ time he was back with a 
big album containing views of Cairo. 

“Oh, that’s the very thing!” she exclaimed 
joyously when she saw it. “ You see that you, dear 
Rasi, have saved me! Thank you, thank you! You 
realise, don’t you, that this is what we need?” 
And when the act was over (which she had played, 
during the scene of simulation, with marvellous truth) 
she thanked Rasi again. 

“Do you know that your album distracted me 
greatly ? To see once more all those places that I 
had visited, and of which I have conserved the most 
delightful memories, made my thoughts fairly gallop, 
taking me far, far away.” 

In fact at this period her greatest preoccupation 
was for the scenic effects, which she considered the 
frame for her performances. She had almost a musical. 
conception of the harmony with which every detail 
had to be brought together, from the intonation of 
the actor’s voice to the intonation of the colours that 
offered the spectator the complete picture. 

Her rare intelligence was most appreciated in the 
arrangements of the various statues and busts, as 
well as the light effects used in ‘‘ La Gioconda,”’ a very 
unusual achievement for that epoch, when stage 
settings were not the luxurious and artistic creations 
of to-day. . . . Compared with the richness of modern 
stage sets, those of the Duse Company were almost 
primitive, yet her attention to the minute detail 
remained remarkable. 

At whatever season of the year, if the act called 
for roses, no matter how many, she had fresh roses— 
and never even one less than the number mentioned 
in the text—whereas any other actress would have 
used artificial flowers. 


96 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


For example, in “La Porta Chiusa,’”’ there were 
always fifty white roses used in the first act. 


In 1894 or 1895, the Duse was passing through 
London on her way to Italy, when Queen Victoria, 
hearing of her presence in the city, requested that she 
should give a performance at Windsor. 

The perplexing question at once arose of what to 
present before Her Gracious Majesty, so as not to 
shock her British taste. A certain great lady suggested 
the fifth act of ‘‘ Camille”; to the objections offered 
she replied : 

“It is very simple to arrange: we will tell the 
Queen that it is the story of a young girl, Daisy, 
whose fiancé, Armand, is in India; he returns too 
late to marry her, and she dies in his arms.”’ 

The ingenious plot would perhaps have succeeded, 
despite Marguerite’s hesitations, had the Queen not 
announced her desire to hear something cheerful. 

In that case the dénouement of “ Camille,’’” even 
arranged specially for the Queen, did not fill the 
required conditions, and eventually the Duse went — 
to Windsor to play “‘ La Locandiera.” | 

The spectacle was not given in the hall usually 
reserved for special performances, but in the white 
salon, which is the place used exclusively for great 
celebrities. 

In the charming Goldian play the actress could 
only demonstrate her graceful qualities; but so well 
did she identify herself with the character, and, accord- 
ing to Italian traditions, address herself simply to the 
public, that the Queen, without perhaps quite appreci- 
ating the brio of the dialogue, enjoyed the naive panto- 
mime, and smiled from the beginning to the end. 

The performance over, the Queen had the actress 
who had so charmed her presented. 

The spectacle presented by the semi-circle ‘ 





AS. ““MIRANDALINA.” 





In ‘“* La Locandiera.”’ 


p. 96. 


Dh ROS ee i ee 
i oy Sg : é 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 97 


—_— 


princesses and great ladies in grand toilette surrounding 
the old Queen, who questioned the pretty “‘ Locandiera,” 
was like a continuation of the play. 

The Duse still had on her smart little pink rose- 
bud costume, with the pointed bodice, and linen fichu 
fastened by a knot of black velvet ribbon. . .. Shy 
in the august presence, she played nervously with 
the corner of her apron, and, fearful of not being quite 
correct according to Court etiquette, she made one 
bow too many. 

In order to put her at her ease, and to show her 
that she was among friends, the Queen said genially : 

“IT believe you know my daughter Victoria. In 
fact she has talked to me a lot about you.’’ And the 
Duse, who was still in the mischievous spirit as well 
as the costume of Mirandolina, under her breath said 
to herself: 

“Ah, little Eleonora! I hope for once you’re 
proud of yourself, with your swell connections! Here 
you have the Empress of India who deigns to talk 
to you, and even reminds you that you know her 
daughter—another Empress ! ”’ 

Then, to be still more agreeable, they recounted how 
highly the Emperor Frederick had spoken of her, and 
that the Emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm, wished to hear her. 
The week before he had been at Windsor, and 
they told her the joke that since the Royal visit had 
been the joy of the Court. There had been a grand 
family dinner, and, as on all such occasions, the Queen 
had arranged the seats at table according to the 
degrees of parentage, instead of public rank. . . . Her 
son-in-law, Prince Battenberg, was on her right, and 
the Emperor of Germany, figuring as the grandson, 
was relegated to the foot of the table... . Kaiser 
Wilhelm II., who was noted for his appropriate and 
ready wit, wanted to show himself a prince as well 
as a good grandson. During the dessert the first 

G 


98 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


toast was to the Queen of England, the second to the 
Empress of India, and the third to the innumerable 
other pompous titles of the powerful Sovereign. Like 
a child forgotten in his corner, the Kaiser raised his 
glass, and with a mischievous smile said meekly : 

“To Grandma ! ”’ 

Whether the humour appealed to the Duse she 
never told, but at least she was more than satisfied 
with her reception at Court. ‘“‘ La Locandiera,”’ after 
having been played for the Queen of England, received 
new honours in Italy, and owing to that remained in 
the Duse’s repertoire (I believe I am correct in this) 
until 1906, and was given the last time at the Manzoni 
Theatre, Milan. 


While playing at the Drury Lane Theatre, 
London, in 1895, the most famous rivalry of the 
speaking stage took place. . . . Bernhardt, who was 
also playing in London, selected the part of Suder- 
mann’s tragic heroine, Magda, for challenge, and 
the Duse promptly chose the same. 

In one of the most wonderful criticisms ever written 
of the theatre Mr. George Bernard Shaw subjected 
them to a pitiless comparison. His conclusion was 
that the Bernhardt had been annihilated in the struggle 
by the enormous and overwhelming quietude of the 
Duse. 

Although both women were at the height of their 
fame, neither was really young (the Duse was about 
thirty-seven, and the Bernhardt fully forty-five). 
Sarah Bernhardt drew a bewitching curtain of artifice 
over her age. Her frocks were splendidly rich; she 
had the finished product of conscious art. Her face 
was covered with the cunning of an accomplished 
make-up artist. Through the loose braids of her 
auburn hair peeped incarnadined ears. 

What Mr. Shaw called Bernhardt’s “elaborate 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 99 


Mona Lisa’ smile came to the spectators through 
long carmined lips and languorous consciously-drooping 
eyelids. 

The Duse came on the stage with lines of care 
and suffering frankly undisguised. The shadows on 
her face were grey, not crimson. 

Sarah Bernhardt, with the subtleties of her mar- 
vellous technique, played upon the audience like a 
great musician. But she never entered into the 
leading character: she substituted herself for it. 

Eleonora Duse produced the illusion of being 
infinite. She seemed to have no tricks, no mannerisms, 
and no method. Her art seemed a _ transcendent, 
overwhelming, quiet thing. It was something beyond 
voice, beyond gesture, beyond method. It wasa trans- 
cendent, dramatic imagination ; perhaps the finest and 
most overwhelming in the history of the theatre. 

It was remarked that the Duse actually blushed 
in ‘‘ Magda.”’ So real was her power of conscious 
emotional effort that her face turned crimson with 
confusion when she met the father of her child in 
“ Magda.”’ 

As Mr. Shaw wrote of that astonishing exhibition 
of dramatic power: ‘‘ Then a terrible thing happened 
to her. She began to blush. And in another moment 
she wasconscious of it. The blush wasslowly spread- 
ing and deepening until, after a few vain efforts to 
avert her face, she gave it up and hid her blush in 
her hands.”’ 

Surely it would be folly to call that dramatic 
technique. Only the most remarkable power of con- 
centration and a sublimated human sympathy could 
make such a high moral note possible. 


The first performance of “ Cavalleria Rusticana ”’ 
was in March, 1884, and was given by the Cesare Rossi 
Company at Turin. It was a noteworthy event—not 


100 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


only in Eleonora Duse’s career but also in Italian 
dramatic history—for the act of Giovanni Verga, in 
the time of romantic plays, seemed to be of impression- 
ing audacity and realism. . . . Eleonora Duse created 
‘“ Santuzza,” Flavio Andd “Turiddu ’”’; Teobaldo 
Checchi (her husband) and Cesare Rossi were also in 
the cast. 

‘Cavalleria Rusticana’’ became one of the 
favourite interpretations of the Duse, and was given 
with great success practically all over the world. 

On the evening of April gth, 1895, “‘ Cavalleria 
Rusticana’’ was presented at Rome. Queen Marguerite 
was in the Royal box, and after the performance the 
Sovereign requested that the Duse come to her box. 
Signor Alhaiza, who had the honour of presenting 
the Royal invitation, had also the displeasure of 
returning to the Queen alone. 

The Duse’s refusal to pay homage to Italy’s Queen 
was the subject of much discussion at the time. 

“Will you tell Her Majesty,” she said to Signor 
Alhaiza, “‘ that I am honoured by her gracious invita- 
tion, but I am sure that she will understand that it 
would be most humiliating for an actress to go through 
the corridors of a theatre in her stage costume.”’ 

This reply following so closely on a similar one, 
when she had refused to receive the King of Wtirtem- 
berg, started the report that the great actress was 
voicing anti-Royalist sentiments, which was not at 
that time, or ever, true. 

The King of Wiirtemberg, assuming that Royalty 
was privileged, had gone on the stage between the 
acts, accompanied by his Marshal, whom he sent to 
the Duse’s dressing-room with the request that she 
receive him at once. 

“TI beg you to thank the King,” she said, when the 


Marshal had given her the august message, “ for his — 


compliments, which are highly honouring to me, and 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life ror 


to tell His Majesty that I am deeply grieved not to 
be able to receive him, but——’’ 

‘The Marshal insisted, and to his insistence she 
replied, more emphatically, thatshe could not change 
her habits, even for a King, and that, as he had certainly 
been informed, she received only intimate friends in 
her dressing-room. 

Determined to see her, the King himself knocked. 

“ Who is it ? ” she called. 

“ His Majesty, the King of Wurtemberg.”’ 

“TI am sorry ’’—there was no agitation or nervous 
tremor in the lovely voice—“ but I have already told 
the Marshal that I cannot receive Your Majesty. In 
any case,” she added, “‘ I am dressing.”’ 

“T will wait,’”’ came the ready reply. 

“ It is not necessary, as I cannot make an exception 

to my rule—so I must beg Your Majesty to pardon 
me,’’ 
When the King still remained outside her door she 
announced, through the maid, that, until he had 
returned to his box, she would not leave the dressing- 
room. 

Disgruntled, humiliated, the King was obliged to 
go back to his box, where inaroyalrage he remained 
until the performance was over. 

The King of Sweden, however, had better luck, for 
he took the trouble to send a diplomatic letter in 
advance, in which he said : 


“It is not the King who asks an audience, but 
the most humble of your subjects.”’ 


He was immediately received, and more than once 
after welcomed as a friend. 
To me it was never a question of snobbism that 
made her refuse a Royal command, but the command 
itself. Eleonora Duse, with the person who knew 





102 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the art of making a proper request, was the most 
docile of women, and the knowledge that by receiving 
a person she was giving pleasure was always sufficient 
to make her accede to any reasonable demand... . 
She worked, and her time on the stage belonged to 
the public; the performance over, she was a private 
citizen, therefore not subject to public command. 

But also she was a woman destined to live through 
many tragedies, on and off the stage, and those very 
tragedies in time softened and sweetened the nature, 
as suffering over a love-affair teaches the value of 
friendship. 


King Edward, while still the Prince of Wales, was 
in Cannes at the time that the Italians were playing 
there. Schurmann, the Duse’s manager, hearing of 
the Royal visitor, hurried to the Prince to make his 
excuses for the bad condition of the theatre and stage. 

‘What difference does all that make ?”’ the genial 
Prince Edward replied; ‘I would gladly go to a 
stable if necessary to hear the divine Duse. It isn’t 
the frame that gives the painting its value.”’ 

Those who had the joy of seeing the divine Duse 
at the New Oxford Theatre, London, in 1923, and later 
during her tour of the United States, will agree with 
the late King Edward’s saying: for had it been the 
frame that gave her her value the theatres would have 
been empty, not because of the theatres, but the 
miserable, cheap, cardboard sets. 


The Duse’s repertoire in general consisted of the 
works of foreign authors, with the exception of “ La 
Locandiera,”’ ‘‘ Scrollina,’”’ “‘ The Ideal Wife’ by Marco 
Praga, and “ Cavalleria Rusticana’’ by Verga, until 
the d’Annunzio tragedies were added. 

During a performance of ‘‘ The Ideal Wife,” at 
Vienna, before a very scarce audience—because the 








| Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 103 


comedy was little known and so most of her admirers 
had kept away—a thin, little old man, with thick 
white hair, great penetrating eyes back of gold-rimmed 
spectacles, was discovered in a first-tier box, where, with 
extreme attention, he was following every word and 
gesture of the actress. . . . He was no less a personage 
than Theodor Mummsen. ... His opinion was no 
doubt tempered by much of the adverse criticism 
already passed on the foreign celebrity ; but before 
the virtue of Eleonora Duse’s art even he became 
convinced, and after him many other elect Germans— 
thinkers, scholars and artists. 

A famous German physiologist, in 1893 (during 
I do not know what play), deeply touched by the Duse’s 
passionate acting and by her realism, and seeing his 
companions no less moved than he, pretended to 
have an acute cold in the head; in order to hide 
his agitation he coughed, cleared his throat violently, 
and then, drawing out his handkerchief, boldly dried 
his tears. ... 

Franz Lembach, the Bavarian portrait painter, 
before knowing the Duse personally, had been so 
impressed by the mobility of her face that he had done 
no less than thirty sketches of her from memory, as 
he had seen her in various parts ; and these sketches 
practically covered the walls of his studio in the 
Borghese Palace, Rome. 

When at length he succeeded in being presented, 
he asked permission to paint her portrait, a per- 
mission which she gave reluctantly, for to sit quiet, 
the expression unchanging, was almost an impossibility 
for her—and from experience she knew the difficulty 
of remaining long in a man’s company without his 
falling in love. ... When at length she did go to 
the Red Studio, as it was called, and saw the sketches 
already made, she knew that her fear for him was a 
reality ; but his love was for the artist more than for 


~ 


ae 
| 
ry ‘ 


104 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the woman. .. . His portrait, with his baby, is the 
most beautiful one that was ever painted of her. 

Though Eleonora Duse was ever in love with love, 
and a greater lover than actress (she herself said that), 
she never wished to be loved unless she could return 
what was offered her, and while, like every great woman 
from the beginning of history, she loved many much, 
a few more, and one most—she loved the most one at 
a time, and the times were at sufficiently long and 
rare intervals. 

Of the numerous men who crossed her path, many 


Were sincere and true friends and nothing more. 


Many who helped her in her career may have been 
considered as lovers, for the world is ever ready to 
jump at conclusions ; but I, like others, have studied 
her life from every point of view, have gone into 
minute and intimate details, and still I can honestly 
state that her friends were legion, and among them 
all certainly none more loyal or faithful ever lived than 
the grand old Roman gentleman, Count Guiseppe 
Primoli, who had known her better than anyone from 
his youth; and who perhaps helped her over more 
difficult places than the world can ever know—yet 
when asked for certain information that only he could 
give regarding her life, he replied : 

“ Much as I should like to help you, of the intimate 


| 


; 


life of Eleonora Duse I can tell you nothing, as it was 
her greatest wish that what was private remain 


private.” 


No man could have greater respect for a friend © 


who is gone, or in the loyalty of his words show himself 
a more perfect gentleman. 

Her friends and admirers were in truth legion— 
her lovers few, and, had divorce existed in Italy, no 
doubt those few would have been reduced to one, the 


man of her inexperienced youth, who it is said would 


have married her had he lived. 





ELEONORA DUSE WITH LEMBACH BABY. 


Famous portrait by Franz Lembach. 


p. 104. 





7) 


Ms 


ey 


» 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 105 


The famous German artist, Adolf Merzel, going by 
chance into an engravers’ shop at Frankfort, encoun- 
tered the Duse coming out with a portrait of the eighty- 
year-old painter and several copies of his paintings. 
. . . The crabbed old man was certainly not a person 
to give way easily to feminine fascination. ... Yet 
he watched her with interest as she walked away, 
then grunted that in art the Duse was “ genial,’ and 
asked gruffly for a photograph of her. 

Some days later a mutual friend invited the actress 
and the painter to lunch. The Duse and Merzel got 
along first rate, without either one understanding the 
language of the other; and on taking leave the 
_ venerable artist anticipated her wish, and instead of 
kissing her hand he kissed her lightly on the brow, while 
she in turn, in appreciation of his greatness, gently 
pressed her lips to the fine artistic old hand. 


After the curtain had fallen on the last act of 
“Claude’s Wife” at the farewell performance in 
Vienna, on the evening of December 4th, 1899, the 
entire audience called vociferously for the Duse... . 
The curtain rose again, and from the upper wings a 
shower of choicest flowers descended on the great 
actress. loo moved by the unusual homage to speak, 
she merely smiled her thanks. The ovation continued. 
The flowers rained on her ; she stooped and gathered 
an armful, and placed them with delicate abandon 
about a bust of Beethoven, which, unobserved in a 
dark corner of the stage, had taken part in the evening's 
tragic performance. 

With one of those rapid, unexpected inspirations 
that so frequently characterised her letters and conver- 
sations, she had felt the need of dividing her honours 
with the most admirable genius of the nation then 
acclaiming her. 

After her delightful act the applause of approba- 


106 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


tion continued, and twenty times she had to come 
before the curtain to acknowledge her appreciation. 
The Duse’s homage to Beethoven inspired a 
Viennese poet to the writing of a strong soulful poem 
published in the Wiener Abenpost, of December 5th, 


1899. 


One of her early and very successful creations was 
“ Frou Frou,” but after a certain evening she refused 
to play it again... . At the fatal time the company 
was incomplete, and when there was a child’s part it 
was the custom to get the prettiest youngster to be 
found in the neighbourhood of the theatre, and to put 
him on without a rehearsal. ... During the last 
act of Meilhac and Helevy’s masterpiece, the child 
was taken to the dying Frou Frou for her to bid him 
farewell. He was a lovely baby of four, picked up 
on the street for the occasion, and without warning 
improvised actor. 

When he found himself on the lap of a beautiful 
lady, pale and sweet, who looked at him with sad, 
tender affection, overcome by the unexpected gentle- 
ness the child began to caress her face. Frou Frou 
embraced him warmly, and the child returned her 
kisses with the effusion of a heart deprived of tender- 
ness—then, seeming to realise that she was ill, he 
burst into tears. The maternal instinct reawakened 
in the Duse, a sad vision reanimated her spirit, she 
began to cry with the child—and when they tried to 
take him away he clung passionately to her, his little 
face wet with his and her tears. . . . The physical 
force necessary to detach the arms encircling her neck 
left her—and that evening, held to life by her son 
Frou Frou was unable to die. 


Eleonora Duse was great, famous wherever a 
theatre existed, but the real grandness, originality, 


1 <a s 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 107 


the spiritual development of the woman did not reach 
its perfection until when, nearly forty years of age, 
she knew and loved Gabriele d’Annunzio. 

For some time before their meeting she had desired 
to make the acquaintance of the rising young poet, 
a man some five years her junior, whose written words 
had so deeply stirred her sensibility. Yet she did not 
in any way seek to have him presented, for with a 
psychic foresight she knew that it would come about 
in time, and would be the means of changing both 
their lives. . . . He was to open a new field for her, 
just as she was destined to be the herald of his fame 
—a fame that would live long after she was gone, 


and their much-discussed love forgotten . . . and it 


was above all because of what she felt she could do 
for him that she desired the meeting. 

So it came about at Rome, on the stage of the 
Valle Theatre during an entr’acte of ‘‘ Camille,” the 
play of which she was already tired but which she 
interpreted as no other actress ever had, that he found 
her leaning against an upright, crying, and trying 
vainly to hide the tears which the scene of farewell 
with Armande always brought. 

In a burst of youthful admiration the gallant poet, 
bowing deeply, exclaimed : 

“O grand Amatrice ! ”’ 

In the marvellously rendered scene that he had 
witnessed he had suddenly seen the realisation of his 
dreams of future greatness. The grand actress would 
vitalise any part that he could write, and with her 
power that celebrity had brought her, force his work 
on the public, even beyond the confines of Italy— 
his name would become known all over the world ; 
glory after glory would come to him. 

To his salutation she replied with a smile, and for 
him she dried her tears. 

The following day great wonderful red roses filled 





108 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


her apartment with their subtle perfume, as the words 
of the poet, with an indefinable exquisite sadness, filled 
her heart ; for even in the beauty of the roses there 
was the strange faint shadow of coming events casting 
itself before... . 

Roses had always been her favourite flower, white 
roses—and his were red. | 

Everything that had ever counted in her life 
disappeared before the fascination of the roses. In 
an instant she felt that she had never lived, never 
loved, known joy or sorrow. She was as a new woman 
ready for the love and passion that he could offer her. 
. . . she was pure in thought and act; the events 
of the years of nomadic life had passed over her 
without entering the part of her soul reserved for his 
coming. . . . Across her heart his name was to be 
written, cancelling those already there. 

In the passionate red roses she saw as in a glass 
the youthful ardour waiting to be sapped by her 


unlimited experience. . . . Saw his suffering as well 
as hers; knew that the union of their souls might be 
lasting. 


To Gabriele d’Annunzio her voice, at times firm, at 
others vacillating, warmed by a mysterious inner light, 
soulful, was as a spiritual essence that hour by hour 
more deeply impregnated his very being. 

She was indeed going to open up a new road for 
him, become the heart and soul of his work—what 
she could give him was more than love, more than 
success . . . there would be a perfect communion 
of souls. 

“To advance, ever advance,’’ was his motto, “ to 
go always higher. Every hour, every minute one 
must fight, affirm against destruction, diminution, 
violation, contagion. Every hour, every minute keep 
an eye on the myth; concentrate every energy on 
that, never hesitating or faltering.” 


€é 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 109 





In that heyday of youth, victory was as neces- 
sary as breathing. A furious will to fight life was 
awakened in the agile Latin blood, aided and abetted 
by the greatness of the woman, who, in her first profound 
glance and firm, warm handclasp, had proclaimed 
herself his friend. 

In the sensuously matured body so full of voluptu- 
ous knowledge he had not seen the love of a night, but 
instead the admirable instrument of a new art, the 
divulger of grand poetry: she who in her changing 
personality could incarnate the future artifice of 
beauty ; she whose unforgettable voice must carry 
the reawakening word to the world. 

Not for love of the woman, but in the promised 


hope of glory did he begin his relation with Eleonora 


Duse. 


The first venture to the United States was in 1893, 
when she met with only moderate success artistically 
and financially. The second visit, in 1896, after 
continual European triumphs, when Russia, Germany, 
Austria, and England had all been loud in their enthus- 
iasm, New York, not to appear less appreciative, also 
went mad over her. 

From the moment of landing she was besieged by 
reporters. Their curiosity irritated the reticent side 
of her character, and made her retire more than ever 
into her shell. 

Tired by the long trip, absorbed by her work, she 
stoutly refused all interviews, thus succeeding in 
putting the entire Press against her. 

Infuriated by the insistent desire to fly from 
publicity, her manager went to the Duse’s hotel, hoping, 
by plain speaking, giving her a piece of his mind, he 
might be able to convince the irascible Eleonora of 
the mistake she was making. 

“Your attitude towards the Press in general, and 





110 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the reporters in particular, has just cost me the paltry 
sum of one hundred thousand lire!” he burst out 
angrily. ‘“‘ You could have won them by a pleasant 
word; but you didn’t have one handy, did you? 
You’re sure of your pay, and naturally don’t give a 
d about my money!” 

“When you put it that way’’—she gave him a 
frigid glance—“ I lose all interest in your affairs, and 
there is no power in the world that could make 
me see areporter now! No power in the world !”’— 
she snapped her fingers wrathfully—‘and least of 
all you!” 

‘““ Anything but dealing with a capricious woman ! * 
He walked the length of the room twice, and then 
changed his tactics. “‘It’s your indifference that 
hurts them’’—he modulated his voice to a pleading 
tone ; “‘ here the actresses take what you call curiosity 
as the highest compliment. ... You’re playing a 
losing game this way: in America they read about 
the actress before they go to see her.” 

She refused to heed his argument. 

“I don’t understand ’’—she continued to be exas- 
perated—*' why I haven’t the right to my days for 
myself.” 

In the midst of the discussion Mrs. G 
society reporter, was announced. 

The manager watched the Duse anxiously. 

Before replying to the servant waiting to know if 
she would see the lady, she rose, looked into a mirror, 
then, turning tragically to the worried man in a melo- 
dramatic pose, said in deep sepulchral tones : 

‘To be—or not to be ? ”’ 

The manager burst out laughing, and the despised 
reporter was received. 

“IT hope you will excuse me, madam,” Eleonora 
Duse said with her most gracious smile, “but as I 
am a stranger here I do not know the habits of your 





, a famous 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 111 


country, and I believe because of my ignorance I 
have been accused of lacking respect for the Press. 
I assure you I do respect the Press, but naturally I 
couldn’t receive all the newspaper men in New York. 
. .. Through you I should like to make an appeal 
to your women, your broad-minded, big American 
women. Jointly and severally we must help each 
other, and I count on you to bring my just protest 
to the attention of your countrywomen.”’ 

Mrs. G , flattered by the responsibility, readily 
agreed to be the Duse’s messenger. 

“Will you ask the women why a labourer who 
works during the day has the right to rest at night, 
while I, who work at night, am not permitted to play | 





in the daytime ? For it is work, and thankless work, 


to reply to those who present themselves at my hotel 
without knowing me, under the pretext that an actress 
belongs to the public, and that he who pays has the 
right to know who he goes to applaud, or hoot.” 

Mrs. G had no suggestion to offer. 

“On the contrary,’ the Duse continued, “ it 
seems to me that one should be a novelty on the 
stage, instead of having already shown the spectator 
how the toy that is to amuse him is made.” 

Mrs. G departed happy, and two days later 
the Duse gave her first matinée. 

The article had appeared and been read; the 
appeal to the American women heard. The protesta- 
tion sounded legitimate, and women crowded to the 
performance to frantically acclaim Marguerite Gautier. 

The first three evening performances had only 
brought seven hundred dollars to the box-office ; the 
matinée took in three thousand dollars. 

From then on Eleonora Duse’s stay in America 
was a continued triumph all along the line. On every 
tram-car, and flaming from the tops of high buildings 
in illuminated letters, the magic words were to be seen ° 











112 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


THE PASSING STAR: ELEONORA DUSE. 


And when on certain evenings the passing star 
did not play, the eternal stars twinkled understandingly 
in the great blue vault, and Eleonora Duse would go 
out alone, on foot, unknown, through the streets of 
New York. | 

One evening, going up Broadway, at Madison Square 
she saw a crowd gathered about an old man. She 
stopped impulsively, glad for once to be a spectator 
instead of the rare bird. ... She went close and 
mingled with the other curious ones. 

The old man with an astrologer’s beard was 
manipulating a long telescope, and explaining the 
mysteries of the sky. 

She recognised him as a fellow-countryman, and 
pushed her way through the crowd to his side. 

“You are Italian ? ’’ she said when close to him, 
“ And you show the stars ? ”’ 

“Per servirla,’’ the man replied. ‘Six cents a 
star. 

“ Here is a dollar—show me all of the Milky Way.”’ 

And, watched closely by the curious, who could not 
understand the foreign tongue, amidst the rumble 
and roar of the clanging cable cars, heavy wagons, 
and electric vehicles, she found an infinite sweetness 
in the contemplation of the stars, her first close 
confidential friends. 

The old man, proud to have an Italian to whom he 
could show his superiority, fixed his telescope on one 
luminous point and then another, explaining, with a 
little more than his traditional eloquence : 

“This is Mars, see how red his light is? And 
this is Venus—ah! those two understand each 
other ! ”’ 

“ And this one ? ”’ 

“That is the polar star.”’ 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 113 


“ The big one to the east ? ” 

“ Si, signora, but the dollar is finished.’”’ He turned 
the telescope away. 

‘“ Wait a minute!’’ she opened her bag happily. 
“Tll pay immediately ; give me another quarter of 
an hour of sky—a dollar’s worth of stars !”’ 

She returned slowly, feeling the ground firm under 
her feet, and every tram that passed clamorously 
bore the same announcement in flaming letters: 


THE PASSING STAR: ELEONORA DUSE. 


And the passing star as she entered her hotel 
paused at the doorway to smile good-night to the 
eternal stars. 


In a week after the discussion with her manager 
not only did she no longer need advertising, but her 
name was serving to advertise others. . . . Posters 
everywhere possible called attention to something 
used by the Duse, even to an immense pair of eyes, 
one laughing and the other crying, with an inscription 
advising the public that Mrs. X , in ten sittings, 
could arrange any eyes a la Duse. 

Make-up, of which she had a horror and scarcely 
ever used, was being revenged on her by pretending 
_ to divulge her secrets of stage effect, on the theory 
that nothing succeeds like success. 

In passing to and from the theatre she frequently 
heard a dialogue similar to the following : 

“What is Mme. Duse playing this evening ? ”’ 

“ “La Locandiera.’ ”’ 

“ How many acts ? ”’ 

“ Three—followed by ‘ Cavalleria.’ ” 

“How does she dress ? ”’ 

‘ Soubrette in the comedy, peasant in the drama ”’ 

“ And to-morrow ? ”’ 





H 





114 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


«La Signora delle Camélie.’ ”’ 

‘““ How many acts ? ”’ 

Ives“ 

‘““ How many costumes ? ” 

RvR” 

“ Does she die ? ”’ 

‘“ During an entire act.”’ 

‘Thanks, I’ll come to-morrow.” 

While in New York she posed for Edourdo Gordi- 
giani, her countryman, and son of the celebrated 
Florentine painter. 

This portrait was, and probably still is, to be seen 
at the Champs de Mars, Paris. The painting is 
made with opal tints dominating, as though to sym- 
bolise the talent that reflects the changing shades of 
the human heart. The pose, which is as exquisite 
as the colouring, shows her seated in delicate abandon ; 
the fine Italian head, devoid of artifice, rests on the 
lovely hands ; and she is looking far, far away, perhaps 
across the seas to one who is awaiting her coming. 

From the time that she had her own company 
Eleonora Duse rarely gave more than sixty perform- 
ances a year: for owing to delicate health she was 
obliged to rest more than she worked ; yet even when 
not forced to travel the spirit that knew no repose was 
continually on the move, for a phrase in a book, the 
sound of distant music, the memory of flowers bought 
in a certain place, and a desire for other scenes 


and people would instantly be born, and in a few hours’ | 


time she would be on her way to the sea, mountains, 
or even the desert. 

Though from the beginning to the end she worked 
with heart and conscience, her one great longing was 
to leave the stage. Many years before she retired 
she wrote the following letter to a friend : Le 

“You have known me during the so-called happy 
period of my life; but I doubt if I have ever been 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 115 


able to hide from myself, sufficiently for you not to 
know, that across the so-called happiness of the scene 
it was never success that I sought in Art, but refuge. 

“ Now the hour of justice has come, the kind hour, 
the harvest hour, and I am on the point of going home. 
I have worked years and years—all my youth—that 
had to be, and now comes the rest which I need. I 
have made enough to live on—I am content, and 
in three months I will have finished my heavy yearly 
task. 

“YT have the greatest of all riches: that of not 
desiring them. 

“ T have arranged a tiny home, with white-washed 
walls, on the top floor of an old Venetian palace. It 
is under the roof, so to speak, with a grand ogive window 
overlooking the entire city: that is where I am going. 

. The autumn is tranquil, the air and my soul as 
well.”’ 


The sentiment that inspired her to leave the stage 
for good was never discouragement, but the hope of 
finding in life far from the theatre the fullness of truth 
and beauty. 

Many times, attracted by the sunshine and solitude 
of the desert, she escaped from Europe to rest in 
Egypt, each time only to be recalled by the theatre 
alarm just when the grand Sphinx had begun to 
divulge his secret. 

More than once, fascinated, she remained deaf to 
the call, obliterating the theatrical world from her 
mind, and in consequence having to pay considerable 
sums for the breaking of contracts; losing, by a 
day of forgetfulness, the fruit of a winter’s work. 

At the beginning of 1897 she was in Russia with her 
company. The engagement was to begin on January 
15th. On the evening of the 14th she sent for her 
manager to tell him that she was not in a fit condition 


116 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


even to think of acting. The opening date was then 
changed to the 1gth, followed by a second change to 
the 24th. That day the Duse decided that the snow 
absorbed her strength, and insisted upon a third 
postponement. 

From week to week this kept up until February 
16th, to the disgust of the waiting public and anxious 
critics. 

Contrary to the manager’s fears, the waiting only 
seemed to augment the number of reservations. 

The company during this unexpected rest were 
being paid regularly, and having a glorious time roam- 
ing about Moscow, going to Russian theatres, seeing 
the city, and not enjoying the cold. 

All went well until the afternoon of the 16th, 
when the manager was called in haste to the Duse’s 
hotel. As soon as he came into the room she an- 
nounced : | 

‘““T am very sorry to have to inform you that if I 
stay here another day I shall either die from the 
cold or go into galloping consumption; so I have 
decided to leave this evening for Nice. You will see 
that the company is paid in full and sent back to 
Milan, and return all money taken for tickets.” 

All his prayers were in vain: she had made up her 
mind to leave Russia at no matter what cost. So there 
was no alternative for him but to pay the company 
as she had ordered and refund the public’s money. . 

When he presented himself at the box-office to 
speak about the payments to be made to the public, 
amounting to 10,000 lire, the window was politely 
closed in his face. | 

The accounts showed that the month passed use- 
lessly at Moscow had cost the management some- 
thing like 100,000 lire. Money lost, but fortunately 
there was the possibility of making it up somewhere 
else. 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 117. 


The “Smara”’ of youth, as the years increased, 
became always more frequent and was the desperation 
of every manager she ever had. 


With the passing of the days her love for Gabriele 
d’Annunzio was growing, robbing her of the repose 
that she needed, and making life far from him impos- 
sible. When away from Italy her one desire was to 
return, to be near enough to help him with her criticism 
and sympathetic understanding of the great work he 
was doing. 

On leaving Russia she was unable to return to 
Italy via Germany, the easiest route, as she had refused 
Kaiser Wilhelm’s invitation to play there. 

At the end of April she was back in Italy, her mania 
to leave the stage again upon her; even the nearness 
of her poet had not the power to calm her. 

She had planned to dismiss the company and 
to go to Egypt, when a telegram came begging her at 
last to play in Paris. 

Paris was her secret ambition, the one ambition 
she had never been able to realise. 

With the arrival of the telegram she began a 
consideration of the enormous difficulties to be en- 
countered. The grand Adelaide Ristori was the last 
Italian actress to venture on the French stage; her 
success had been clamorous, but she had rare classic 
beauty, aided by the costumes of Francesca, and Pia 
dei Tolomei—types of any country and age. The Duse, 
on the contrary, was not noted for her beauty, and 
had to present herself @ la Parisien, in appearance 
an imitation of the great actresses whom she had 
applauded from time to time during her short stays 
in Paris. 

For her to be mistress of the situation she needed 
to feel the theatre vibrate with her, believe with her. 
Could she affront the difficult Parisian public—the 








118 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


public used to perfection, profoundly critical, and 
ever on the alert to ridicule ? 

Though not easy to please, there was one thing 
certain: no public in the world, when contem- 
plating real merit, would be more generous with its 
praise. | 

After all, it remained with the artist to create the 
illusion. If she were able to recite in their language 
the conquest would be easier, but she had to address 
them in an unknown tongue; and more than that, 
the Italian play in Paris had become synonymous with 
music, and any production from over the Alps took 
on immediately the air of an opera. . . . Camille 
made them recall ‘‘ Traviata,’’ and that would make 
her merely a singer who had lost her voice. 

While she was meditating, and trying to decide 
just what she should reply to the telegram offering 
her a theatre, Gabriele d’Annunzio was announced. 

Without a word she handed him the telegram, her 
deep eyes searching the reply in his. 

“From Paris ?”’ he asked, without opening it. 

She nodded. 

“ You hesitate ? ”’ 

“Certainly. I have never dared to affront the 
Parisian public, for they are too used to perfection 
in ensemble and personality.”’ 

“There you are wrong. You know what a noble, 
unhoped-for reception my work has found in France. 


It is the French tradition to open wide the doors to 


artists from across the seas and over the mountains. 
I am convinced that in Paris you will find, more than 
anywhere else, attentive and receptive hearts. . . . Go, 
dear friend, go, by all means!” 

“All that you say is possible ’’—she was still un- 
certain—“ but what good is it to have the public 
attention if they do not understand the language ? ” 

“You will astonish them just the same by the 


ee eee: 
NP ee a ae 





~ {Keystone View Co, 


GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO. 


p. 118. 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 119 


multiple facial expressions, and by the musical Italian 
phrases.’ He spoke with absolute assurance. 

“Lovely music! My repertoire consists of badly- 
translated well-known French plays. If I could give 
“La Citta Morta’ 4 

““ La Citta Morta ’ is reserved for the Renaissance.” 

“And it’s precisely the Renaissance that they 
offer me.” 

“Really ?’’ He opened the telegram. “ Then 
there is no reason for you to hesitate—what more can 
you ask than to have the doors of the Renaissance 
opened for you by Sarah the Magnificent ? ” 

“ Granting that you are right, to pay honour to 
the Queen of the Poets you must give me rhymes and 
images. Improvise a poetical work for me.’’ There 
was doubt and pleading in her eyes. 

“What could I turn out in a week? The mere 
idea is mad!” 

“Then give me the réle of a mad woman!” 

“ You will go to Paris ?”’ 

“On that condition only.’’ The words were firm, 
but the voice implored. 

“TI must try then to satisfy you.’”’ He smiled. 

“T want a formal promise.” 

“ All right!” One after the other he raised the 
beautiful hands to his lips. ‘In ten days you shall 
have your madness.”’ 

The ‘‘ madness,” as he called it, was ‘“ Sogno di un 
Mattino di Primavera.”’ The first of May she had the 
completed manuscript,and was ready to begin rehearsals. 

“T have it!” she exclaimed proudly as she met 
Count Primoli in the hall of the Hotel Bristol, Rome.”’ 

“What have you?” he asked. 

“ The play d’Annunzio promised me!” Radiantly 
she extended a neatly-bound velvet book for his 
inspection. ‘‘ And in order to put it in its proper 
frame I’m taking my actors to the country, to rehearse 





120 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in the fresh green fields, among the budding flowers. 
Ten days, only ten days of rest, then—Paris!” 

“ You will open with... ?”’ Primoli the kind friend 
silently rejoiced with her in her enthusiasm, but was 
afraid for the success of the too-hurried work. 

“ T’m undecided between ‘ Magda,’ ‘ Claude’s Wife,’ 
and ‘ Camille.’ ”’ 

‘“‘ All plays admirably done by Sarah.” 

“ Alas, I know that only too well! ”’ 

“The advice of a friend would be to take some- 
thing else to the Paris public.” 

“ But what ? It isn’t my fault if the grand uni- 
versal artist has tried everything, and left on each 
creation an indelible mark. I would much rather 
not give anything of hers, but as every play worth 
while has passed through her hands naturally my 
repertoire is composed of a small part of hers.” 

“Why not give an Italian play ? ”’ 

“Which one? I don’t feel ours, I mean the 
tragedies of yesterday. To have something really 
fine I would have to go back to the Greek, and the 
time for that is not yet ripe. Allora ?”’ 

“What about Shakespeare ? ” 

OT course there is always Shakespeare,’ she 
admitted ; “‘ but apart from several sublime creations, 
which are not in my line, in his plays the woman’s 
part is always sacrificed. I often think ’”’—she 
digressed for a second from the subject in hand— 
“ that if, during his time, there had been a great actress 
like Sarah Bernhardt, what a part he would have 
written for her.” 

“True, but that doesn’t settle your problem. You 
hadn’t thought of ‘ La Locandiera ’ ? ”’ 

“No, I had forgotten poor old Goldoni! But he 
is so typical of the seventeenth century, and Venice 
of that time—still there is a certain freshness that 
serves as a repose. But I can’t give that all the time; 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 121 


continual joking doesn’t agree with my kind of beauty. 
If you force me to comedy you will be sending me 
back to my grandfather’s school; and once one has 
graduated, it’s not amusing to return.” 

“Then if there are so many serious objections in 
the way of ‘La Locandiera,’ give a modern Italian 
play.”’ 

“Which ? ”’ 

“ * Cavalleria.’ ”’ 

“Hm! That was a daring venture ten years ago, 
an attempt at a new type of theatre. I was perhaps 
the first to appreciate the work of a grand and serious 
talent, and I created the part with respect, and 
always played it with pleasure. But after the 
popularity of Mascagni’s opera in Paris, wouldn’t the 
public feel that the drama lacked music ? ” 

“No, being already known it would merely make 
things easier for you. You can give that, and other 
Italian plays as well: Giacosa’s ‘ Tristi Amori,’ and 
Praga’s ‘ Moglie Ideale.’ ”’ 

“They are also interesting ventures, but in both 
of them I represent a little woman, essentially Italian, 
and local in character, that could not be interesting 
in any other country. And then, even though the 
plays are charming, neither rdéle is anything special. 
... If I have a certain internal flame how can I 
reveal it in such parts? . . . For this time I am afraid 
I must content myself by offering the Paris public 
such samples of Italian repertoire as ‘ Cavalleria,’ which 
is not unknown to them, the Goldoni comedy, and 
d’Annunzio’s dramatic poem: thus representing the 
theatre of yesterday’’—she paused—“ and perhaps 


that of to-morrow. . . . For the balance of my engage- 
ment I will give French masterpieces, where one finds 
ardle as wellasa play. . . . Afterall, why shouldn’t 


they be interested to see a French creation interpreted 
by an Italian temperament ? ”’ 





122 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“In short, you are practically limiting yourself 
to Sarah’s repertoire ? ”’ 

“To Sarah’s repertoire ? ’’ she shrugged. ‘I have 
said that it is universal, and goes from Phédre to 
Spiritism, in passing from the dramas of Victor Hugo 
to Alexandre Dumas’ comedies. That I think com- 
poses the entire French theatre ; and it is in order to 
have the honour of playing a tiny bit of the French 
theatre in Paris that I am going to the Renaissance. 

. Am I right or wrong? Who knows?” 

“You must have confidence in your name, 
Primoli hastened to reassure her. 

“No one knows it in Paris.” 

“Then put your faith in your anagram.” 

‘What’ 

“Victor Hugo would have said : ‘ Duse—Deus !’ ” 

“Oh! I had never thought of that!” 


Even if Gabriele d’Annunzio had not kept his 
promise she would have gone to Paris, for Count 
Primoli, who had aided her materially in making 
the arrangements, would certainly not have permitted 
her to back out at the last minute. 

It was the most brilliant season of the year, just 
before the Grand Prix, when she opened at the Renais- 
sance Theatre... . The details of that first success 
would fill an entire book. The actress was acclaimed 
as no foreign actress had ever been; the woman 
féted on every possible occasion. 

Sarah Bernhardt, who had invited the Duse to 
her own theatre, forgetting professional etiquette, her- 
metically closed her dressing-room ; and the first night, 
hidden in a stage box, jealously watched her rival’s 
success. After the fourth act, unable to withstand 
the continual applause, she came forward and, standing 
in the front of the box, looked towards the audience. 
After a few moments she was recognised, and the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 123 


applause immediately turned from the Duse to 
herself. 

The critics were unanimous in their praise of the 
famous Italian actress. To give the translations of 
the many Press notices would be to repeat again and 
again the same praise; enough that such writers as 
Henri Rochfort, Leon Bernard-Derosne, Francis Sarcey, 
Fmanuel Arine, Gustav Laroumet, Henri Fauquier, 
Felice Duquesnel, Ernest Tissot, Don Blasius, Emil 
FPaguet, William Archer, Edmond Got, Paul Taillade, 
Gustav le Bargy, Coquelin Cadet, Eugene Silvain, 
Louis Largier, and many others of lesser fame found 
in her all the perfection of dramatic art. 

In Paris, the home of Moliére, in the sanctuary 
of Art, accessible to few of the élite, she, a stranger, 
a foreigner, entered as _ souveraine, saluted and 
acclaimed by the biggest actors and actresses of 
France. 


While triumph was following triumph, and to all 
who knew her Eleonora Duse seemed happy, she wrote 
from Paris : 


“ This anguish of Paris has invigorated the firmness 
of the afiection that fills my heart for our theatrical 
life. . . . It consoles me to realise that Art can be 
raised by the burning of the inner life. 

“T am annoyed, tormented by a thousand things 
(that I don’t wish to lament over nor even speak of) 
that have come up during my engagement here. When 
the heart is full one remains silent, when the trouble 
is really deep one is also silent. . . . Silence is one of 
the many noble sides of love.” 


Returning to Italy after the season in Paris she 
began to announce her disgust for the Italian plays. 
The announcement was received by the public with 


124 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


sceptic surprise, almost disdain. Italian authors had 
been working for her for some years—for her alone 
(and, as a matter of fact, had turned out very little, 
if anything, worthy of her talent). If she accused 
them of abandoning her, in that she was wrong, for 
they were doing the best they knew how, but that 
best simply was not good enough. 

When she gave “ Camille,’ in Paris, there was not 
even standing room to be had in the theatre ; but, 
beautiful as the drama was, and is, in order to go on 
pleasing the exigent public she had to find something 
new. 

“* Magda,’ ‘La Moglie Ideale,’ ‘Claude’s Wife,’ 
‘Camille,’ ’”’ she affirmed, ‘‘ are all good enough plays, 
I’m not condemning them: merely for me they are 
moss-grown. Basta! basta!’ (enough) “‘ I must have 
something new! ‘True, in ‘Camille’ there is still / 
a thread of gold that keeps the imitation pearls of the 
drama together: the gold thread of passion. But 
the rest! the rest! I myself am humiliated in the 
part of the person | am forced to represent. And 
often the disgust becomes so great, and so proud the 
protest of my conscience, that it seems to me that 
from one moment to the next I must lose the physical 
acting force, and the nervous currents that move 
the arms will not arrive, and that I will not be able to 
awaken my intellect, and may against my will remain 
stupidly inert before the expectant public. At that 
time my one desire is to have the footlights put out, 
to throw the manuscripts of all the parts into the fire, 
pack my stupid actress luggage, and to fly!” 

And still she insisted : 

“T need to try something new: for myself as well 
as my public. What I have done up to now, what I 
continue to do, no longer satisfies me. I have the 
sensation of something being re-born inside. In the 
plays that I give I feel that all the falseness is falling 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 125 


away—in fact, has already fallen, and that, like a nude 
person, I am presenting something mortifying to my 
listeners. I have a vague desire, an indefinite aspira- 
tion towards a form of art that will respond more 
directly and more profoundly to my present state 
of mind.”’ 

Nothing was yet in sight, and, as several times 
before and after, she was obliged to turn to her dreams 
of the Greek tragedies. 

““T have a deeply sincere faith in the inevitable 
return to the beautiful Greek works,” she would insist 
when questioned by her friends. ‘“‘ The movement, 
the lines of our art, are the movements, the colour, 
the lines of corruption in Art. Even the language that 
we now speak is corrupt.”’ 

Whether she was right or wrong will not be known 
for some time to come, as up to the present few actors 
have had the courage to revive the ancient Greek plays. 
Gustave Salvini, and Annibale Ninchi are the only 
Italian actors of this generation who have put on 
Greek works, and their success has been far from 
clamorous. 


In September of that year, 1897, both as woman 
and actress Eleonora Duse’s friends believed her to 
be contented. . . . Various schemes had fallen through, 
yet she was tranquil, and confident of her plans for 
the coming winter. 

In the early autumn she was at her 
in Venice, resting. 

And it was there that Gabriele d’Annunzio received 
the inspiration for the plays that she was to make 
famous ; though they were not written until later. 

“You could never lose yourself,” she said to him 
one evening as their gondola moved slowly over the 
smooth waters of the Grand Canal. “‘ How sure you 
are of what you are going to do. Itseems to me that 


é 


‘ palazzino ”’ 





126 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


you carry your destiny in your own hands; and that 
only pride could ever make you tremble, or touch 
your heart.” 

Those words summed up her opinion of him. He 
had put himself on a pedestal too far above the world 
of ordinary mortals for natural happenings or suffering 
ever to reach him. . . . Only through his pride could 
his heart ever be touched. 

The marvel of those days together, the long, long 
hours of intellectual intercourse, unforgettable hours, 
were her treasured memory for many years. 

Wonderful as the time was spent in each other’s 
company, there were moments when her soul seemed 
to rest in mid-air, thrown there by the violent waves 
of regret, and desire. . . . The pride and intensity of 
her hard and pertinacious work—her ambition held 
in check only by a too-limited field—were constant 
torments ; and over and above the conflicting emotions 
there was the continual fear of losing him, the absolute 
assurance that his love was transitory, and that it 
was only a question of a short time before she would 
again be alone. . . . This ever-present fear kept her 
from living to the full the shining hours, which even 
his protestations of eternal love and devotion left 
fearful. 

And it was that torment which he felt and saw 
constantly in her eyes which drew Gabriele d’Annun- 
zio to her. She was the woman of sorrows, but never 
of a morbid character: on the contrary, she was gay 
and full of exuberant life, but—the sadness was born in 
her, and never, even in her gayest hours, quite left her. 

The dreams of a grander, more imperious art that 
would be as a signal of light and instrument of sugges- 
tion, all his arrogant, high-brow dreams, his insatiable 
needs of glory and pleasure merged into a tumultuous 
desire to possess the very heartbeats of the lonely 
woman, the nomad, who it seemed to him had gathered 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 127 


silently together, even in the folds of her dress, the 
frenzy of the far-away multitudes whom she had purified 
by the divinity of her art. 

Every thought that she had for him was unselfish. 
The fight she made for the ultimate success of his 
plays shows that her wish was to make his name grand 
and had nothing to do with her personally, for her 
name was already grander than his could ever be. 
In the perfect maturity of her genius she could do 
what no other actress could, and with audacious courage 
she launched and made him, unaided. Without her 
he would have been a fine writer of the Italian language 
and nothing more. : 

For those who do not know d’Annunzio’s work 
I would like to say that his novels are composed of a 
very poor short-story plot, with long-drawn-out, 
marvellously-expressed descriptions. A mere sunset 
fills five or six pages, and so on through the long book. 
. . . His dramas—I have never heard or read them 
in English and do not even know if they have ever 
been translated—given by Eleonora Duse: “La 
Citta Morta’”’ (The Dead City), “ La Gioconda,” and 
“ Francesca di Rimini,”’ were interesting, and because of 
the perfect poetic measure, are ranked among the 
world’s classics, but in them, asin all his work, the 
grand idea is absolutely missing. 

Eleonora Duse in time will be nothing but a myth 
as other great actresses before her have become ; but 
d’Annunzio’s work will live on, in Italian literature 
at least, and be recognised, after Dante, as the purest 
Italian ever written, and perhaps the most beautiful. 
And in the reflection of his glory Eleonora Duse will 
be remembered for such plays as she created for him. 


A notable event in the theatrical world of Italy, 
an event which unfortunately bore little fruit, was the 
Duse’s attempt at something different in the presentation 


128 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


of “L’Abbesse de Jouarre,’”’ Enrico Panzacchi’s 
translation of Ernest Renan’s unusual drama. 

Whether the Duse made this mistaken attempt 
out of affection for Panzacchi, who it was known was 
desperately in love with her, or because she believed 
in the work, is not known. 

The critics of that time (1896) say that the presen- 
tation at the Valle Theatre, Rome, was a complete 
success. The fact that the play does not appear in 
her repertoire shows that the success must have been 
very limited. 

To give her repertoire, with the dates and theatres 
where she played, is possible, but hardly interesting 
enough for readers outside of Italy to make it worth 
while. 


During the second trip to the United States, which 
was a memorable one in the annals of American 
theatrical history, Mrs. Cleveland, wife of the President, 
gave a luncheon at the White House in honour of 
Eleonora Duse. A similar favour had not been 
conferred on Sarah Bernhardt, though her success at 
Washington had been quite equal to that of the Duse. 

The critic of the New York Evening Sun, after 
seeing her in “ Camille,” wrote : 


“ To arrive at the height of Eleonora Duse’s per- 
formance of Marguerite Gautier, it would be necessary 
to put Clara Morris and Sarah Bernhardt together. .. .” 


Others spoke of the sincerity of her acting, of her 
magnetism, genius, etc., and as always the ee was 
unanimous. 


‘“‘Sogno di un Mattino di Primavera ”’ was given in 
Italy at the Brunetti Theatre, Bologna. The first even- 
ing of the same play at Rome was as complete a failure 
as the performance in Paris and Bologna had been. 


(APES SSR ESTOS See SEES SRSA cANarestee esr Nese 
Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 129 


The Valle Theatre was packed. Queen Marguerite 
was in the Royal box, so there could be no whistling 
or hooting as the Italians are accustomed to do 
when not pleased with the play or an actor. That 
evening, unable to express themselves loudly, they 
took the direct contrary, and when the curtain 
fell on “Sogno’”’ a silence as of the tomb reigned. 
But the minute the curtain rose on the first act of 
“La Locandiera’”’ a formidable ovation broke forth 
of “ Vive Goldoni! ”’ 

D’Annunzio smilingly assisted from a stage box 
at the glacial reception offered to his first dramatic 
work given by Eleonora Duse. 

The Duse was neither calm nor serene. She was 
in fact visibly irritated by the public’s lack of appre- 
ciation, and did nothing to hide her anger towards 
those who had failed to understand. ... And to 
demonstrate her faith in the poet and his work, she 
dedicated herself, from that day, almost exclusively 
to the study and divulgement of d’Annunzio’s works. 

The second, and more successful venture in the 
d’Annunzio field, was ‘“‘La Gioconda.” The dis- 
cussions which the tragedy aroused only served as an 
incentive to her determination to carry the work as 
well as the author to glory. The opinions were diverse— 
there were those who praised it, others who condemned. 

Granting the grandeur and fascination of style, 
the marvellous poetry of the descriptions, the sweet- 
ness of the tone, it was the negation of theatrical 
sense. Thecharacters, facts, the fight, the catastrophe 
were essentially theatrical, but it was a work more to 
be read than acted: for while the words were mag- 
nificent, the ideas high, the style fine, it appealed to 
the mind but left the heart cold—in brief, it was a 
poem to be recited. 

The genial idea of a tour for Eleonora Duse 
and Ermete Zacconi was d’Annunzio’s; and as they 

I 





130 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


were to give “‘ La Gioconda ”’ exclusively, he made all 
the necessary bookings. 

They toured the principal Italian cities, received 
with fervour everywhere. Never before or since have — 
actors been given such warm receptions. Eleonora 
Duse and Ermete Zacconi! The greatest actress and 
the grandest actor together. The Duse and Zacconi ! 
Never before were two actors so totally different 
put side by side with a happier result. The fresh, 
delicate tones of the Duse alternating with the almost 
crude notes of Zacconi were like the melodious sighs 
of a violin and the dark ominous groans of the bass-viol. 
Zacconi was marvellous, the Duse was marvellous— 
but together the marvel lost much of its intense reality. 
However, the engagement aroused an enthusiasm that 
was both artistically and financially satisfying. 

The tour over, Luigi Rasi, the greatest young 
actor in Italy, was engaged as leading man to substitute 
Zacconi for the season 1899-1900. 

With her actors Eleonora Duse was always most 
lenient, and considerate in her criticisms, showing 
infinite patience with those unused to her stage direc- 
tion, and by the entire company she was held in the 
greatest respect. 

Her humours were well known, but seldom under- 
stood even by those who had worked for years with 
her. The bursts of favouritism when one actor or 
actress of the company would be treated to more 
than special consideration and the others ignored were a 
source of jealousy, and often amusement, to those who 
were out of favour, for experience had taught them 
that with the change of wind she would change her 
mind, and select a new favourite or recall an old one. 
. . . She was almost the personification of vacillation. 
A new friend could influence her against an old one 
or vice versa. She would give her word and five 
minutes after have a new idea that revolutionised the 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 131 


first opinion sufficiently to change her mind com- 
pletely. . . . She was capable of loving and disliking 
at ten-minute intervals—yet those who understood 
her, if anyone ever truly did, learned to put up with 
the inconstancy of idea and eternal caprices, for even 
in her moments of nervousness and bursts of quick 
temper there was a subtle, irresistible fascination that 
forced one to keep on loving her. 

To return to September, 1899. She had become 
La Signora, the grand Duse—not, as before, the dear 
companion in art, the delightful Eleonora—so that 
when she arrived on the scene for rehearsals she was 
greeted by a respectful silence, and in silence the 
rehearsals began. Only when she had shown her 
humour did any member of the company dare to 
speak, unless spoken to. 

While in Berlin a call for a full rehearsal of “ La 
Gioconda’”’ without parts had been given. ... The 
rehearsal was progressing merrily, notwithstanding the 
fact that it is a tragedy, when a whisper passed over 
the stage that cast an immediate serious silence over 
all : 

“ La Signora.”’ 

The Duse was distrait that evening, and scarcely 
even acknowledged the discreet “‘ buona sera,” that 
came from all sides. With an annoyed wave of 
her hand she motioned them to their places and 
immediately took up her cue. 

Luigi Rasi was an intelligent man, an actor at 
home in all the leading rdéles of the Duse repertoire, 
but “‘ La Gioconda ”’ was new to him, and furthermore 
he was taking the grand Zacconi’s place in the part 
of Lucio, a r6le created by Zacconi, so had more than 
his own reputation to live up to. 

They were at the famous scene of the first act; 
Rasi had given the cue, when the Duse rose and walked 
away, announcing wearily : 








132 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


‘““ Second act.”’ 

‘‘ And the rest ? ”’ Rasi ventured to ask. 

‘‘ What rest ?”’ she looked at him in surprise. 

“Your part with me. Aren’t you going to do 
that ?” 

“No!” She smiled indifferently. 

‘But what do you do at the point where you left 
off ?”’ He knew there was something special and was 
visibly worried. 

“You will see!” 

edeatghiaek pV Deni ros 

“Be quiet, you grumbler!”’ And without further 
explanation she left the stage. 

That scene was never rehearsed. . . . However, it 
made no particular difference then as “ La Gioconda ” 
was not to be given at Berlin, perhaps owing to the 
morality of the play being contrary to German ideas, 
or else business was too poor to warrant the trial 
of an unknown drama; so it was not until later, at 
Bucharest, that Rasi finally played Lucio. 

During the preparations for the performance, 
much advertised and anxiously awaited, the Duse was 
continually in a loquacious humour, joking one minute 
and serious the next, so that it was impossible for 
Rasi to rehearse the difficult part with her seriously. 

Her loquaciousness gave the impression of an 
overflowing river, which in its turbid course swept all 
before it. .. . She sang the praises of Byron and Shelley, 
touched lightly on religion—Christian and Pagan— 
the mode in stays, and recited lines from Shakespeare. 
. . . The illness of the Prince, heir-apparent, interested 
her, as did the death of a famous prince of the city ; 
the customs, gypsies, the poor crops that year; the 
Latin race, the Oriental; and various discourses on 
Dante’s “ Vita Nuova.” 

This period of loquacious incubation which 
preceded the performance served to increase Rasi’s 


Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 133 


torment, the fear of not being able to play the part well 
ever before him. But strangest of all to him was that, 
when the evening arrived and he was on the stage, a 
sense of perfect tranquillity entered his being, so that 
every movement, every word of the glorious actress 
was as though for him and for him alone. 

At the end of the first act, the unrehearsed scene, 
she had so completely won him by her sweetness, and 
especially in her expression when she gave him the rose 
to smell, before Cosimo Dalbo’s departure, that 
in that instant he felt an unexpected lump come into 
his throat, and found he was breathing with difficulty. 
Another moment, another whispered word from the 
magic woman, and tears came to his eyes... 
and unheeded, rolled down his cheeks. 

When she turned away from him he suddenly 
recalled the end of the act that they had never even 
read together. ... He had not the slightest idea 
what she would do or how to reply to her. Mere 
words would not suffice to bring the act to a triumphant 
close. .. . They were before a public not familiar 
with the language, therefore the lines had less import- 
ance than the acting. . . . While he was still trembling 
inside, the curtain fell amidst thundering applause. . 

Rasi, like the audience, had been swept along on 
the current of her genius. He had lived through the 
crucial scene, carried on to the climax transported 
by her will. 

The big scene in the third act was the same. .. . 
According to Rasi she had never found exactly the 
proper measure for that climax, but that night she 
was superb; and until the close he had not been 
conscious of acting, or having a gaping theatre the 
other side of the footlights. 

After the performance was over, from every box, 
the orchestra and galleries as well, the entire audience 
stood—calling, clapping, and waving their handkerchiefs. 


134 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


. . . Constante Nottara, the star of the National 
Theatre of Bucharest, where they were playing that 
evening, literally precipitated himself on to the stage 
like a madman, crowding compliment after compliment 
upon the Duse for her art which, as he said, “‘ touched 
the confines of the brain as well as the soul.” He 
was like a slave standing before her, drinking in 
rapidly the eloquent, revealing, harmonious words 


that fell from her lips. 
Later he wrote a long letter giving in detail his 
opinion of her, which ended: “ In brief—the Duse is 


the grandest event of dramatic art in this century.”’ 
Elizabeth’s private secretary went to the Duse 
after the performance to present the Queen of 
Rumania’s salutations to the Queen of Art, and to 
offer her expression of deepest regret at not being able, 
owing to her son’s illness, to join her enthusiasm to 
that of her populace. That same evening the badge 
of merit was conferred upon her by the Minister of War. 


The demonstration over in the theatre, the crowds’ 


gathered about the stage entrance, lining both sides 
of the street from the door to her carriage. In silence 
they awaited her coming—silence had been enforced 
so as to take her by surprise. They even resorted to 
stratagem, surrounding her with Court dignitaries who 
distracted her and slowly conducted her to the vesti- 
bule. As soon as she came in sight a long frantic yell 
broke from the multitude ; they picked her up bodily, 
carrying her high in triumph to the carriage... . 
The horses had been unhitched, and with continued 
yells of youthful enthusiasm her carriage was drawn 
by college students across the public square, through 
the streets to her hotel, where Ministers of State 
and the highest nobility were waiting to receive her. 

The stupefaction, incomprehension, on the Duse’s 
face during all this hilarious excitement was something 
long remembered by the vast crowds. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 135 


“What are they doing to me? What in the 
world has happened ? Where are they taking me ? ”’ 
she seemed to be saying, though no word passed her 
lips. 

A new applause broke forth uproariously when they 
reached the hotel, continued while she remained in 
the hall trying, almost mutely, to express her thanks, 
and accompanied her up the stairs, lasting until she 
had disappeared into her room . . . solemnly closing 
the unforgettable evening of glory for Italian Art. 


At Budapesth the crops had been good, the heir- 
apparent was in perfect health and no illustrious person 
had died; so there was nothing to keep the populace 
from going to the theatre, nothing to dampen their 
enthusiasm, or to stop them from showering attention 
upon the glorious actress, the genius of Art. The 
success there was inexpressible. 

After a performance of “‘ Cleopatra’ the Duse was 
called twenty times before the curtain. That evening 
she was in a happy loquacious mood, but restrained her- 
self with sufficient sobriety, and acknowledged with 
poetical beauty the homages of the Danube public. 
During a curtain call she mentioned to Rasi that she 
was suffering from toothache. 

“It’s a pain that weakens one!”’ she said to Rasi 
as the curtain fell for the twentieth time. “‘ Think of 
being eaten by vermin before dying! Ugh! Because 
you know decay is nothing more than a worm that 
eats us alive!’’ Then she burst into one of those 
rare peals of childish laughter, the sweetness of which 
made her the most seductive creature in the world ; 
and, as though someone were after her, slipped away 
to her dressing-room. 


While touring she experimented with such plays 
as “‘Gloria”’ by Gabriele d’Annunzio, “I Cenc” 





136 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


by Shelley, ‘‘ Macbeth,” “‘ Princess George,’ Alexandre 
Dumas, and several others less known. They were 
badly put on, and were all more or less failures. 


Not always did she excite sympathy or receive 
enthusiastic ovations. In Breslau she appeared only 
once, and for the public that was once too often. The 
play she gave there was “‘ Cleopatra.’”’ She was suffer- 
ing from the Budapesth toothache, and thought more 
of the pain—or perhaps the worm that was eating 
her alive—than the play. . . . Lost in self pity she 
forgot the ‘“ bullet heads” waiting for the supreme 
moment, which that evening never came. The theatre 
was packed, and at the end of the performance the 
audience slowly, sadly, silently filed out, wondering 
why they had spent their good money to hear so 
pitifully poor an actress. 


Returning from Munich, after just having left her 
daughter, of whom she rarely spoke, with a proud 
tenderness she said to an intimate friend : 

‘“ Henrietta—my little Henrietta—is so intelligent ! 
You should hear how she holds her own regarding the 
most serious questions. And yet, you know,” she 
smiled wistfully, “‘ she is quite green.”’ 

“Ah?” the friend replied. Then timidly, “ Do 
you think Henrietta will become an actress ? ”’ 

“Ah! no, no! Not while I live! I believe, of 
course, that we all havea right to choose our lives, but 
goodness ! what use is all the education I have given 
her if it doesn’t keep her from the stage ? ” 

While perfectly realising her own sacred mission, 
and the necessity of continuing until the end, Eleonora 
Duse had no intention of permitting her daughter to 
pass through the suffering and disillusion that she 
had known. 


Yet she was always content to receive in her — 


-S** res 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 137 


company actresses who came, as she said, from the 
outside, who were not born on the stage, for they 
brought a new current of life into the too narrow, 
closed surroundings of the theatre. 

“This element, which has a superior education, 
an entirely different point of view and habits of living, 
mixes itself with the true stage element and is 
altogether a step towards theatrical regeneration.” 

She willingly accepted promising subjects in her 
company, but she never advised any man or woman 
to go on the stage; in fact, she was against acting 
as a profession, and whenever any woman asked her 
advice on the subject she painted the life as black 
as possible; then, if they insisted upon trying their 
ability, she gave them a chance if she had a place 
for them. 


Without pity, as she often expressed it, she was 
condemned to drag forever the infernal chains: in 
other words, to die night after night on the stage, 
either consumptive, poisoned or shot—for the good 
of her country and in the name of Art. 

And so it seemed, for in nine out of ten plays given 
by the Duse the drama ended with her death; and 
yet, strange as Fate is, in the last play she gave she 
did not die before the final curtain. 


At the termination of the season 1899-1900 Eleo- 
nora Duse leased the Villa Porziuncola at Settignano, 
Florence, a mere peasant’s cottage, lost to public 
view, high on the hills overlooking the quaint old city 
of Florence. Aided by Gabriele d’Annunzio’s won- 
derfully artistic sense, the cottage was eventually 
transformed into a most exquisite ancient villa. 

As by a magic touch the bare old doors were 
turned into carved Venetian works of art; the first- 
floor windows became Venetian stained glass. An 


Bea ales ta | 





138 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


ancient monastery seemed to have been robbed to 
rurnish the square entrance hall and the two adjoining 
fooms. Her own bedroom was simple, comfortable, 
and of no period in particular . . . the entire house 
during her stay there was of a rare artistic simplicity, 
and suggested, as her daughter wrote: 

‘“ This is not the home of an actress, mamma dear : 
it is the house of a philosopher.” 

The Porziuncola was Eleonora Duse’s first real 
home, and ,she remained in possession of it from 1900 
to 1911, when the owner (according to his statement 
in May, 1924) was obliged to ask her to give it up 
as he needed it for his own use. 

As the mural decoration, the famous door, and the 
stained-glass windows and much of the beautiful 
furniture is still there, Professor F. V. Ratti is now 
trying to arrange with the owner and the Hon. Gentile, 
Minister of Public Instruction, to have one room in the 
villa kept up by the Italian Government in memory 
of her. 

Across the narrow street, a mere country road 
honoured by the name of Via dei Capponcina, is the 
Villa Capponcina, which was d’Annunzio’s home, and 
it was he who discovered the Porziuncola and persuaded 
Eleonora Duse to lease it, so as to make her home 
near his. | 

Need one speak of their life there on the hills of 
Settignano ? Can the reader not imagine what it 
must have been? Those two villas surrounded by 
the beauties of Nature ; two villas far from the mad- 
ding crowd, lost in the silence and solitude. . . . Two 
great souls bound by the bonds of intellectual desires. 
. .. [wo human beings who had already lived in 
the fullest meaning of the word, who had drunk the 
cup of joy to the dregs—and from those very dregs 
had found a new inspiration, and a joy greater than 
any in the past had been. 





A LORZIUNCOLA. 
The First Home. 





VILLA CAPPONCINA. 
Where d’Annunzio wrote ‘*‘ Francesca di Rimini.” 


p- 138. 





ry) 
we ela ®-se. ft 
Z : 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 139 





The flowers in the little garden that surrounds three 
sides of the Porziuncola were all planted by her ; her 
favourite white roses, climbing red ones, run up the 
sunny side of the house and cover the high walls that 
enclose the villa. In the centre of the wall, facing 
the main entrance, there is a plain wooden gate opening 
on to the Via dei Capponcina, and through that gate 
she passed to go to d’Annunzio’s larger and more 
pretentious villa. 

Her power on the stage either when speaking or 
silent was more than human: she reawakened a sense 
of occult pain in hearts long untouched, stirred them 
to renewed secret hopes, and by her words brought the 
dead past to a living present. In her suffering one 
recognised the suffering of all humanity—as though 
the soul which she revealed was the world’s soul. . . . 

And that strange stage power she possessed even 
to a greater degree in private life... . In Gabriele 
d’Annunzio she awakened hopes of a past that had: 
never existed, tormented him with new ambitions, 
roused to the full his sleeping genius. . . . There at 
the Capponcina he wrote the most vital of all his 
plays, and the novel that attracted the greatest 
attention, and, undoubtedly owing to the subject, had 
the greatest sale. 

In the little ground-floor room, the wide, low 
windows overlooking the entire city of Florence, with 
Eleonora Duse always within calling distance, “ Fran- 
cesca di Rimini ”’ came to life. 

The grandness of Eleonora Duse’s character and 
the sincerity of her love and ambition for him were 
demonstrated to the world when, against her wish, 
d’Annunzio’s novel, “Il Fuoco” (The Fire), was 
published. . . . It is said she appealed to his chivalry, 
his love for her, his honour—to no avail. His need 
of money at that time was stronger than any sentiment, 
and on March 5th, 1900, in Milan, the book appeared. 


’ 





140 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


In “Il Fuoco” he pictures her as an old woman 
who still retains the irresistible charm of youth. 

The story is of course beautifully told, as only he 
could tell it; there are passages that illustrate his 
descriptive ability better than in any of his works. 
. . . What he gained by it in literary fame he lost 
a thousandfold in_ social prestige—for the story 
was too evident, too blatant, too unmanly. 

What may have passed between the man and woman 
regarding the book nobody ever knew, for she was too 
noble, too superior ever to refer to the subject; per- 
haps too ashamed to let even her friends see the depth 
of the wound it had caused. And her intimates 
respected her silence enough not to interrogate her. 

She, like all Italians, considered it a great literary 
work, that much is known, and perhaps the know- 
ledge that she had inspired it was a sufficient satis- 
faction to pass over the hurt caused by his vulgarity 
in exploiting their intimate relations which she with 
her wonderful reticence had sought to keep secret. 

Whatever she may have thought or felt, or even 
suffered, there was no immediate outward change in 
the close rapport that existed between them; for it 
was after the appearance of the book that she took 
possession of the Porziuncola—thus proving to the 
curious public that even their knowledge of her secret 
could not change her nor keep her from the fulfilment 
of her mission. 


To return to 1898. While resting in Florence she 
was asked to take part in a farewell performance for 
Reichemberg, an actress of the Comédie Frangaise. 
She accepted with enthusiasm, and refused even her 
expenses for the trip being paid. . . . Thanks to the 
Duse’s presence the receipts of the evening amounted 
to over 44,000 francs. At the end of the spectacle— 
she had given the last act of “‘ Lecouvreur ’’—Feélix 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 141 


Faure, the President, went on the stage to congratulate 
her. The Duse thanked him for his compliments 
and said modestly that she had been afraid. 

“ Of what-?”’ the President asked. 

“To play in a foreign tongue on the stage of the 
first theatre in the world.” 

“What!” he exclaimed astonished. ‘“‘ Did you play 
in Italian? Your art isso full of passion and truth that 
I never even noticed that you did not speak in French.”’ 

The same year at Lisbon, her triumph at the 
Amelia Theatre was so great that the Viscount San 
Luiz de Brega, manager of the theatre, decided to 
place a tablet in the foyer of the theatre in commemora- 
tion of her performance. . . . As an exceptional con- 
cession the Duse consented to meet the Viscount de 
Brega, and to assist at the inauguration of the tablet. 


During the festivities for the marriage of Princess 
Isabel to Prince Tomaso, Duke of Genoa, the proverb 
of Baron di Renzis, ‘‘ Un bacio dato non é mai perduto ”’ 
(A kiss once given is never lost), was given in the 
Quirinal Gardens by the Duse, Cesare Rossi, and 
Luigi Rasi. When the little play was over, before 
the actors had returned to their dressing-rooms, the 
Prefetto di Palazzo announced that the Queen 
wished to compliment the Duse and her companions. 
Before they had time to make any preparations the 
souveraine arrived. 

The Queen was most affable, but the Duse, probably 
from nervousness, received the homage with visible 
embarrassment; to the gentle words she scarcely 
replied, seemingly unable to find an expression that 
would recompense Queen Marguerite’s kindness. 

There was something in her nature that resented 
patronage, even of Royalty, though she did not 
have a sentiment against the friendliness of her own 
gracious Queen. 





142 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


From the beginning of the d’Annunzio period a 
subtle change was noted in the Duse’s acting. It 
was neither better nor worse: it was merely different. 
Some attributed it to the combativeness awakened 
by the opposition, almost antagonism, demonstrated 
toward his plays. . . . Whatever it was, the Italians 
have an everlasting debt towards Eleonora Duse 
for the progressive change she forced into their 
theatre. 

When the Italian theatre was tottering, losing 
one by one its characteristics of personality, slowly 
taking over the current expression of foreign theatrical 
works or those of a National school of little import- 
ance, it was their own great actress who forced the 
slumbering Latin mentality to awaken to the good 
that was in their midst. And though it took her 
several years she finally convinced them that their 
poet was the world’s poet and that it was their duty 
to respect him, that in turn he might be respected 1 in 
other countries. 

Gabriele d’Annunzio found in the artistic fraternity 
of Eleonora Duse an affectionate collaboration and 
the needful understanding of his genius. . . . The Duse 
divined immediately what others did not succeed in 
grasping until years later, and even at great sagan! 
sacrifice she retained her position. 


Vienna, feeling that flowers, applause, the Diese did 
not express their homage sufficiently, and not to be 
outdone by Paris, invited the Duse to play with their 
national company at the Burgtheater, the theatre that 
tradition had made the sanctuary of Austrian dramatic 
art. Never before had a foreign actress set foot on 
the stage. . . . Understanding the profound homage, 
the Duse proudly accepted the invitation. In the 
touching figure of Silvia Settala, “‘ La Gioconda,”’ she 
revealed her artistic and womanly spirit and, by the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 143 





wonder of her acting, paid in turn her homage to the 
classic temple. 

The gross receipts for the evening amounted to 
10,000 kronen, a sum never before realised for a single 
performance at the Burgtheater. 


In Petrograd, the theatre sold out, the Czar and 
other members of the Royal family and Court present, 
the actors made up and ready to go on, she called the 
manager to announce calmly that she was not playing 
that evening. 

“What, signora!’’ he exclaimed, petrified with fear ; 
“the Czar has already arrived. Ican’tsend himaway!”’ 
“And why not? At least you won’t have to 
refund his money, for he didn’t pay to get in.’ 

“TI know, but 

“No buts!’ she put on her hat and went toward 
the door. ‘‘ Arrange it the best you can.”’ 

“The best I can! My God! there’s no best in a 
case like this—you'll have to go on!” 

“Tll have to what?” She looked at the poor 
man in wrathful surprise. “I'll what ?”’ she repeated. 

“You will have to go on!” he said each word 
distinctly, taking his authoritative position firmly. 
“ You can’t give way to a caprice when crowned heads 
are in the theatre.” 

“And do you think, stupid, that crowned heads 
are more important to me than others? Every one 
of us has some sort of a crown!” With an unusually 
haughty air she opened the door. “‘I am not ina 
mood to act to-night, and should not go on even if— 
God or the devil were in the theatre.”’ 

“What shall I do?” He wrung his hands in 
despair, for, terrible as the position was for him, he 
knew from past experience that nothing could dis- 
suade her, and that he couldn’t put her on the stage 
by force, nor make her act against her will. 








144 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


‘“ Tell them anything you please: that I’ve broken 
my leg, or—or am dead! Good night.’’ 

Just what smara had her that evening no one ever 
discovered, for the next day it had passed, and the 
delayed performance was eventually given. 


In all her pilgrimages the thought of the far-away 
Patria, the friends and cities of her dreams, vibrated 
continually. The mystery of life was incumbent upon 
her, the spiritual research already leaning toward 
the dark profundity of another world, while glory and 
love were still crowning the declining days of 
youth. 

During a tour in Egypt she wrote the following : 


‘““ Squatting as I am now one writes with difficulty. 
Carpets are the only luxury here in this part of the 
-world. ... At my feet I have this morning’s mail 
from Europe. . . . Europe—what a grand word ! 

“To-day has been a good day. Slowly turning the 
pages—so—I have seen it pass. ... In this part of 
the world the day ends with the sun—this one has been 
tranquil, of an Oriental calm. . . . I can’t tell you, 
for I don’t truly know, whether I am well or otherwise 
here. . . . I only know that I seem to feel that this 
is not the first time I have seen the Orient. . . . Some- 
thing of myself appears to come back to me when | 
wander about the streets, bazaars, and curious Arab 
quarters—and more than all in the vast open air do 
I feel this impression of a past life, clear, penetrating, 
conscious. When this comes to me I stop on the 
street, trying materially to gather together some 
fragment of something, if only a strain of music. 

“ Here all that one sees is called Oriental, and Egypt 
is far, far from Italy, so the geography says. Why, 
when one has the fortune to be born in Italy, does one 
ever have the unfortunate idea to leave such a heavenly 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 145 


country ? I have a memory, but I find it a coarse 
and useless instrument. 

“The exiled body is ever a reason for preoccupation. 
The fatigue of work and travelling is more serious than 
I thought it was going to be, and frequently keeps 
me in low spirits. But why worry! I thank you 
for thinking of my health. I am taking the best care 
possible of myself, and stay whole days, when not 
working, flat on my back, just resting—resting. 

“T am not working well, nor making as much 
money as I should, so as acompensation I have taken 
to re-reading Pascal. There, indeed, was a person 
who knew much, and was still wise.” 


One evening at the Scala (igor), hidden away in 
the back of a box, where even the most curious were 
not able to recognise her, the Duse, during an entr’acte, 
was talking of Maria Malibran, the famous singer. 

“Ah,” the Duse sighed with passionate longing, 
“the Malibran! She died young, at the very height 
of her glory! How fortunate she was!” Saddened, 
pale, for a moment her thoughts were on the dead 
singer ; then moving suddenly slightly forward in the 
box she looked with keen admiration at the vast 
animated theatre, in her eyes the memory of past 
triumphs, the assurance of future glory. 

“Ah!” she whispered proudly, “‘ what a wonder- 
fully beautiful thing a theatre is! I wantone of my 
own !—with the suggestive Gorgona head in the centre 
of the velarium ! ”’ 

For a second the woman of the limpid heart and 
inscrutable soul was lost in her favourite dream, and 
the Scala, the famous Italian opera house, became her 
own beloved imaginary theatre at Albano. “‘ Grande 
Amatrice,’’ Gabriele d’Annunzio had called her, yet 
how much more worthy of her it would have been to 
have said ‘‘ fervid animator.”’ 

K 





146 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


How often are the humble in heart properly 
illuminated ? 

In the Cascine, on a warm Florentine October morn- 
ing, the Duse gave a generous sum to a poor woman 
for a few flowers. 

“Bless you, signora!’’ the unknown exclaimed, 
‘for the fine day you’ve given me . . . and bless her 
also!’’ she added, handing her remaining flowers to 
the friend who accompanied the Duse. 

“‘ After all,’ she said with firm conviction, as the 
poor woman turned happily away, “those are the 
blessings that really count.” 

And Guy de Maupassant’s mother, desolate, bereft 
of her only son, alone in the silence of the rose-covered 
villa, was sought out by the brilliant actress. 

“ What can I wish for you, madam,”’ the lonely old 
woman said. ‘‘ You are in the height of your glory, 
nothing more can come to you.” 

“ Peace,” Eleonora Duse whispered humbly. 

She, who had every glory that life could crown her 
with, had never in all her triumphant wanderings 
found peace. ... Her hands, hands made famous 
by d’Annunzio, were ever extended in pity towards 
those who had need of it; yet when her own time 
came pity was to be denied her. . . . The consoler of 
others knew no consolation. 

Repose was unknown to her. The torment so 
much spoken of was the feverish activity and anxiety 
for renewed and new forms of interior beauty. . 

It was the mad searching, searching, and the inability 
to find that made her restless and desirous of always 
moving on. 

To say that one knew Eleonora Duse intimately, 
even though living with her every minute of every hour 
of every day for a long time, would not mean being 
intimate, or knowing her. Those who were permitted 
to observe her closely might say they had lived 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 147 


intimately with her; but they could never have arrived 
at any conclusion other than that she was marvellous, 
without explaining why, or even understanding. 

To say that she was so, and so, would be a presump- 
tion ; rather, she seemed so on a certain day, or perhaps 
she had said such and such a thing. To have seen 
and heard her in private life, even for a few minutes, 
was worth more than seeing and hearing her in every 
performance she ever gave, and yet neither would 
give a true idea of what the woman was. 

She was a modernist, with a universal comprehen- 
sion. She interpreted life as she had learned it; a 
part was studied, not from the written words of the 
author, but rather from what lay under them—from 
the psychology of living, from the profound culture 
that she had acquired. 

Bitterness and human suffering had left their in- 
delible mark on her, and had shown her where sweet- 
ness could triumph over harshness. Thus prepared 
and matured she had surmounted the grave danger 
of excessive culture, a danger that threatens many 
actresses, and frequently does more harm than ignor- 
ance, for it saps the spontaneity, and kills the in- 
spiration. 

Many times it seemed to her, and to others, that 
she had deluded herself with false hopes and therefore 
was simply waiting. Perhaps she did believe in her 
ability to raise dramatic art to a higher plane even at 
that time, for when Gabriele d’Annunzio came to 
offer the result of his genius she received him with 
outstretched hands. She lived before the dream of 
a new art (perhaps I have said this before) ; in her the 
artist, not the famous actress, needed to give life to 
something different. The poet instead asked vision 
and glory of the triumphant one for Ais something 
new. And the generous artist, ready to sacrifice the 
actress, accepted the responsibility. 





148 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The desire to renovate herself was therefore the 
keynote that guided Eleonora Duse’s heart and mind, 
impulse and sweetness, satire and lightest jesting, 
laughter or silence, confidences and interrogations, 
meditations and readings—all with self-improvement 
as the ultimate reason for living. ... Veiled by 
melancholy, the gayness like the rare glimpse of blue 
sky between the heavy clouds of winter, she walked 
ever ahead towards the unknown light: not of vulgar 
well-being, regally offered and easily worn out, but of 
the glory that life concedes for a short time to youth ; 
and often for a longer period as the sun slowly, slowly 
turns towards the horizon .. . the learning to live 
having become the compensation for the lost youth. 

With her natural talent and psychological qualities, 
little by little the woman as well as the actress changed. 
As the inner woman so was the outer; her glance 
became of a vague penetrating sweetness, the dazzling 
smile softened the lines of the face and changed it to 
an almost unearthly beauty. Her walk was rhythmic, 
harmonising with every movement of the slight, delicate 
body. The voice retained its silver, bell-like notes 
that time and sorrow had ripened to an acute sweet- 
ness. The hands so expressively used seemed to be 
animated by the gift of thought. Every line of hard- 
ness had mysteriously faded from the smooth brow, 
and the soft rebellious hair that was rapidly turning 
white crowned her with a regal splendour that she 
had never possessed in her youth. 7 

Therefore it was only natural that this new discovery 
of herself should have brought a complete change of 
spirit that necessarily led to discoveries regarding stage 
presentations, and made her mode of acting and speak- 
ing diverse. ... This time is spoken of as the re- 
flective period of her career, the period when she was 
consumed by the fever of knowledge, the fear of 
being unable to express herself worthily. . . . To the 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 149 


aristocracy of improvement she added the aristocracy 
of person, the aristocracy of heraldry and intellect .. . 
which meant knowing only those who could benefit 
her in one way or another. 

And yet in questioning the friends and actors who 
surrounded her during the most brilliant of her brilliant 
days, one gets very little nearer the real woman than 
before. 

When asked about her character, one of her later 
managers Said : 

“ Eleonora Duse’s character? It is difficult to 
delineate, or to close in a definite formula. It was as 
changeable as her temperament, varied as her art, 
fixed only on the basis of constant research for the 
good and beautiful. . . . One could say, without fearing 
to be inexact, that the Duse was of an eminently 
individualistic nature, and certainly fully conscious 
of her grandness. . . . She gathered unto herself all 
the world’s kindness, for she more than others knew 
how to live, more than others how to suffer. She was 
of a decided intolerance, predilection, and force. 
She adored one colour and abhored another; she 
idolised one flower, and while the idolatry lasted 
belittled all the others. 

“Her health never resisted much hard work, and 
a rehearsal that was announced for a certain hour 
at the last minute frequently had to be postponed ; 
but at the following rehearsal she never failed to 
speak of her absence, or find the occasion to say a 
gentle word, or express a kind thought for her com- 
panions in art, or in fact for any of those who worked 
with or for her.”’ 

Her intimates supported admirably the frequent 
bursts of anger, and the inequality of her character, 
after all generally due to a superior cerebral tension ; 
for her sentiments were elevated, and her heart always 
in the right place. The anecdotes recounting her 


150 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


singular moods are legion, though not all of them are 
authentic. 

Anna Vivanti, the Italian novelist, relates a delight- 
ful incident of Eleonora Duse when she was playing 
at the Adelphi Theatre, London. Mme. Vivanti entered 
the dressing-room where Maria, the most faithful of 
‘ dressers,’’ was preparing the Duse for a second act. 

“How are you, dear Eleonora ? ” 

Eleonora was quite all right, a bit nervous, and 
very thirsty. 

“ Maria, didn’t you hear me!” she spoke sharply. 
tem thirsty ! ie 

Maria let a wrap and a diadem fall, and precipitated 
herself in search of a glass of water. 

“T don’t want water ! ’’ Eleonora said emphatically. 

‘“‘ And what would you like to drink, [lustrissima ? ” 
Maria asked humbly. 

“ Did I say I wanted something to drink ?”’ There 
was withering scorn in her voice. “ I said I was thirsty. 
I want a cucumber.”’ 

‘“ A cucumber !’”’ Maria gasped. “ For pity’s sake! ”’ 
Then hopefully: ‘‘ That means—for luck ? ” 

“Yes, precisely—for luck! A cucumber, a melon, 
a pumpkin! Well, what of it? Why do you stand | 
there like an idiot ? Go and get it!” 

‘For pity’s sake!’’ Maria murmured again, and 
in nervous haste left the dressing-room. 

It was not the season for cucumbers, and moreover 
Maria did not know how to say cucumber in English, 

In a few minutes she returned with a plate on which 
a luscious bunch of grapes reposed artistically. 

The Duse flashed a fiery glance first at the grapes 
then at Maria. 

“TI told you a cucumber ! ”’ she yelled, and grabbing 
the unoffending grapes she threw them in the stupefied 
Maria’s face. Then with her most resplendent smile 
went out of the dressing-room and on to the stage. 


+ @ «. 









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NEST ROPATRA. 


156. 


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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 151 


Maria picked up the scattered grapes, and dried 
her face. ‘‘ It’s fortunate,” she said to herself, ‘‘ that 
it wasn’t a cucumber ! ”’ 

“ But if it had been a cucumber,’ Madame Vivanti 
laughed, “‘ she wouldn’t have thrown it at you! ”’ 

“Who knows!” Maria sighed illogically, 

The story ends there, but, in all probability, for 
at least two days after the burst of temper, Eleonora 
Duse put herself out to make up in kindness for the 
moment of unkindness. 


The only English plays that the Duse ever gave 
were “‘ Antony and Cleopatra ”’ and “ The Second Mrs. 
Tanqueray.” The latter was one of her greatest 
successes at Vienna. 

During one of her winter tours, ill from the pro- 
longed cold, she had about decided to give up the 
balance of the engagement in Vienna, and to leave 
for Italy ; but, realising that the Viennese public had 
been too generous to be treated so brusquely, she 
changed her decision, and on November 30th, 1899, 
gave, for the first time in that city, “ The Second 
Mrs. Tanqueray.”’ | 

This charming Pinero comedy having been a great 
success both in London and the United States, there 
is no need to go into the story. 

The critics say that the Duse was excellent, spon- 
taneous, improvised as Mrs. Tanqueray. . . . Shortly 
after her first entrance she went to the table and took 
up a bunch of grapes, and in the most delicate, aristo- 
cratic manner began eating them, taking the skins 
from her mouth and letting them drop on to the 
plate with a most delicious movement of the hand ; 
studied, undoubtedly, but intensely natural and 
admired. 

At the end of the scene where she revealed to 
Tanqueray her jealousy of the step-daughter, her tones 





152 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


of exaggerated admiration were sublime and in perfect 
contradiction to his. And when she found fault with 
her husband because he thought only of Helen, the 
crescendo of Helens was different from anything ever 
heard at the “ Raimuntheater.’’ The last syllable still 
on her lips, Helen appeared, and with an exquisite turn 
of tone she smiled and added, ‘“‘ Why, here she is! ”’ 
That simple, “ Here she is,’’ was her own personal 
touch, and was undoubtedly the best moment of the 
act. 

For the Duse the second act was a perfect miniature, 
a real poem of simplicity and finesse—as one gently 
expressed it: a ‘‘ Grieg Caprice.’”’ . . . But when she 
was truly prodigious, reaching an unimaginable height, 
and transporting the entire audience with her in the 
marvellous ascension, was in the scene with Mrs. 
Cortelyon. . . . This time it was not the hands, as 
in the scene with the grapes, but the parasol that one 
might almost say became the protagonist. With what 
a delicious finesse and subtle irony did she trace the 
innumerable lines on the imaginary sand. . . . In her 
accents, glances, suggestive movements, quick change 
of colour—one moment flaming with rage, and the 
next livid with hatred and fear . . . and in all her 
individual touches she remained scrupulously faithful 
to the text. 

In the scene with her husband she was clearly 
explosive, and there found again her old open intona- 
tion of the rebellious soul. . . . From that she passed 
to the direct contrast of the third act scene with 
Helen, where she abandoned herself with ineffable 
tenderness, broken from time to time by bursts of 
unexpected insistent jealousy. . . . Later with Captain 
Ardale she became terrifying in her force ; expressing 
the inner conflict with a stupefying mobility of physi- 
ognomy ; and in the end, when she finds herself aged 
before her time, and before the husband who knows 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 153 


nothing of the tragedy, she softly put her cheek against 
his, and rested silent while he gently stroked her hair ; 
then with quick resolution she broke away from 
him, and muttering almost inaudibly, “He knows 
nothing .. .”’ she rushed from the stage. . . . From 
the transfigured face, the low cry of anguish from the 
broken spirit, and the intonation of the mournful 
voice, there could not have been any doubt in the 
public’s mind as to the eminence of the tragic end. 
When the final curtain fell hundreds of voices, 
hands and handkerchiefs became as one curious moving 
sound, calling for the adored actress. Though pros- 
trated by the emotion Eleonora Duse was obliged to 
present herself ten times before the frantic multitude. 


The continual foreign tours, when for months 
she remained away from Italy, only rumours of 
her triumphs reaching home, had begun to make the 
Italians believe that their Duse was being weaned 
from the Patria, and almost a spirit of resentment 
greeted her upon her rare appearances in the big cities. 
They were accusing her of lacking in patriotism, not 
realising that every time her name appeared on a bill- 
board it was a new glory for Italy, for her foreign 
triumphs were nothing more than a reflected glory 
for her own country. 

Perhaps with true Italian spirit they were jealous 
of their own actress. But if she had ceased to care 
for her own country, for her own public, why did 
she make her home there ? Why, when far away, think 
continually of the many friends waiting for her return, 
recall with longing the blue of her Italian sky, the 
flowers? Why after each triumph so gladly take 
up her acting in Italy—keep the old familiar actors 
with her? And why did she not play in French, 
which she spoke perfectly, and without an accent 
(I have that statement from M. Edouard Schneider, 


154 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the French writer), and could have acted with the best 
French actors?.. . Instead she always spoke on the 
stage in Italian. 

But was it love of country, or one man there that 
made her thoughts turn longingly ? Was it because 
she was Eleonora Duse, Italian born, that decided her 
to settle for the rest of her life near her birthplace, 
or was it because of other memories ? In a woman it 
is often the man who accounts for her love of a place, 
and she had never loved other than an Italian. 


I wonder how many people have observed that 
an actress on the stage rarely, if ever, changes colour. 
She is either pale or flushed as the part demands ; 
and as she enters, she exits. . . . Eleonora Duse was 
never that way, she was natural, though she knew 
perfectly how to make up; she had a special 
abhorrence for all such artifice; even wigs were 
not used until the whitening of her hair made it 
necessary. 

The changing colour that was so often noticed in 
every part that she played was therefore the colour 
produced by the emotion she was living through. 

While in Florence last spring, getting together the 
data for my book, I had occasion to go to Buzzoni, 
the best and I believe the oldest hairdresser in that 
city. During the waving séance I was talking to Enif 
Robert about an incident at the Porziuncola. 

“Ah!” Buzzoni exclaimed, “ you were playing 
with the Duse Company ? ”’ 

“Yes,’”? Mme Robert explained; “I was with her 
for the last performance at Vienna in 1g09, and I was 
also with her for the last performance at Pittsburg.”’ 

Buzzoni was much interested, and, assuming an 
air of great importance, said : 

“T also was on tour with her for two years, many 
years ago.” 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 155 


“Indeed. As ...?’’ Mme Robert enquired. 

“As coiffeur,’’ Buzzoni replied proudly. ‘I made 
the wigs, and travelled with her to take care of them.” 

How interesting! I liked the idea of having the 
opinion of a man of his class. 

“Yes,” he admitted, “and I still have the 
‘Francesca’ and ‘Gioconda’ wigs. I bought them 
from her when she stopped acting and was in need of 
money. I’vekeptthemasasouvenir. It would be like 
a sacrilege to let any other actress wear them... .”’ 
There was a husky note in his voice as fora second he 
leaned forward to inspect the iron in his hand. “I 
used to go up to the Porziuncola nearly every day when 
she was there with d’Annunzio,”’ he resumed his story, 
“and though I went to her room each time, I can’t 
honestly say that I ever saw the inside of the villa, 
or more particularly her room.” 

“ How was that ?”’ I asked. 

“She had the fantastic, ancient idea that persons 
of a lower class should never see the place they were 
being taken to, or know how they got there... . I 
always went up quite early in the morning; she was 
never a late riser, and from the brilliant sunlight of 
the garden entered a tightly-shuttered room, or hall, 
I never knew which, and, led bya servant through the 
darkness of the night, I was conducted to the upper 
room, equally shuttered. The Duse was seated before 
a table on which a small lamp burned with only suffi- 
cient light to illuminate her head. She chatted or 
remained silent according to her mood, while I arranged 
the luxuriant hair for the day. And when the work 
was finished I followed the servant through the dark- 
ness, to the downstairs door and the light.”’ 

Hm! I liked the idea, and wanted him to tell 
me more. 

“It was a great honour to dress her hair,’’ Buzzoni 
willingly continued, “‘ but I was always glad to put 


156 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the last touch, and I admit I felt relieved when I was 
out in the sun again. She was grand and wonderful, 
and all that, but there was something uncanny about 
her also.” 

‘Yes? And was she difficult to please?” I 
ventured to draw him out a tiny bit more. 

‘“‘T think I made every wig she ever used, and. . . 
well, she wasn’t exactly difficult, for in the matter 
of hair she knew what she wanted, but . . . she was 
sometimes trying.” 

After that he showed us the famous wigs of long, 
red-gold, gloriously soft hair. They are almost the 
same length, but the ‘‘ Francesca’ one is a shade darker 
than the ‘‘Gioconda.” ... When we had properly 
admired them, with something like reverence they 
were put back in their camphor. 

The uncanny part, I said, when we were out of 
the shop, was nothing more or less than the something 
divine that the more cultured always found. 


The Porziuncola in 1900. 

From the narrow road of Settignano the villa is 
invisible, and until the gate is reached the tiny low 
house set in the middle of a modest garden would not 
even be noticed, unless being searched for. 

Beside the plain wooden gate the name of the 
Franciscan dwelling is cut on a stone slab; an unob- 
trusive bell is beside it—a bell that one could not 
pull without feeling a certain emotion, as though 
expecting an unknown happiness, or blessing. Far 
away, from the inside of the house, a faint conventional 
echo falls softly on the surrounding stillness . . . and 
slowly, mysteriously, by unseen hands, the gate is 
hospitably opened, naturally not suspecting inter- 
viewers. 

The first thing to greet the visitor is the perfume 
of many roses, the one great luxury of the strange 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 157 


home of the still stranger woman: the actress of 
complicated tastes, now mad with the madness of 
spending, now simple and primitive. In the centre 
of the many-coloured garden is the path that leads 
to the entrance, a few stone steps, then the modest 
carved door. In the spacious hall the Duse had 
gathered together reproductions of the masterpieces 
of Art. Reproductions of Botticelli’s works, Mantegna, 
Verrocchio, Desiderio, and others are to be found 
scattered about with discernment and exquisite taste 
throughout the entire house, that in no way resembles 
anybody else’s home. 

She had succeeded, without even trying, without 
affectation, without special ornamentation, in having 
a place that was rich, but not luxurious, original, but 
not loud, and unable to give a complete sense of 
repose the first time visited : for the useless ornaments 
and usual furniture to be found in almost any woman’s 
house were lacking there. 

The stranger had the sensation of having a sphinx 
before him and an enigma to solve. The sphinx was 
there in the person of Eleonora Duse, the enigma in 
her wide, questioning eyes—questioning for those who 
intruded, but for the welcome guest she was the most 
adorable of hostesses. 

After tea among the roses at the shady side of the 
villa, where the sun sinking into a bed of tawny clouds 
was to be watched, she would show the inside of her 
house, in the act often showing a wee bit of her heart. 

Walking with light virile step that gave elegance 
to the slight body, she would go from one room to 
the other; in each room the same two colours 
predominated : sombre red and dark green. 

In the Duse’s study there was only one souvenir 
of her life as an actress: the statuette given to her 
by the Italians living in Paris after her triumph of 
1897. No picture of a living person adorned the walls : 


158 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


an engraving reproducing the supposed features of 
Shakespeare, and several other photos—Keats the poet, 
Shakespeare’s house, and an angle of the intercolumna- 
tion of San Giovanni Degli Ermeti, at Palermo; the 
last, simply framed, was hung on the wall near the 
window, from which a tall cypress that caresses the 
house was visible. Books and flowers everywhere, 
particularly roses in great flat brass urns, or tiny 
vases in niches made in unexpected places in the walls. 

For the formal guest there was a special room, with 
a divan and many pillows, several small arm-chairs 
such as might be seen in any house, and a magnificent 
spinet, such as it would be difficult to find anywhere. 
In the half-light of early afternoon the gold of the 
spinet seemed discoloured, and the garlands of delicate 
roses that encircled it were suggestive of soft caressing 
hands ; but at sunset the sun entered the high window, 
and from above the light fell obliquely on the spinet, 
changing the gold and dead flowers to a bright flame 
colour. 

Against the wall on the far side of the room was 
the portrait of a very beautiful woman. 

‘““ She was a very dear friend,’’ the Duse explained, 
“and her name was Matilde. She was so generous 
and good, and yet—she was a creature of intense passion 
who had the misfortune to be unfaithful to the man 
she ardently loved; I say misfortune, because she 


was in no real way to blame. . . . Because of her hatred 
and disgust of herself, she confessed all to him: then 
she committed suicide. . . . I have only her portrait 


here, for I feel that she is happier alone. 
“All these black leather cases contain the letters 
from one person.’’ Again in the study she pointed 
to a pile of black leather envelope cases. ‘‘ And that,” 
she indicated an imposing-looking volume, “‘is the 
translation of Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ 
Boite’s manuscript. I have destroyed all the rest.”’ 





_ Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 159 


She remained a moment with half-closed eyes, 
swallowed several times, then nervously closed the 
book, and without another word went out and up to 
the brightly-lighted severely-monastic dressing-room. 
There she took a frock out of the wardrobe and, raising 
a sleeve, kissed it. 

“T look at it now and then,” she explained, “‘ and 
try to deceive myself with the thought that my wise 
daughter of twenty-one is still here. She is fresh and 
vivid as an April morning, and so flexible and glowing 
in this light frock.” 

The bedroom, a tiny place, is next to the dressing- 
room: a low bed covered with green damask, a 
prie-Dieu, and over the bed a plaque of Medusa, resting. 
The bare walls are white, unpapered. Severe ; silent. 

Her daughter was right when she called it the 
house of a philosopher. It was certainly not the home 
of an actress—it was the home of Eleonora Duse. 

There, in that tranquil nest, she knew something 
like happiness, there also she passed through the 
most tragic hours of her life, and emerged victorious. 

In the little place she called home she dreamed of 
rest, and perhaps—death . . . but there was a long, 
long road to travel before the noble olive-crowned 
head could rest, the heroine leave her unfinished work. 


While really ill, the voice hoarse, breathing so 
difficult as to prevent her giving full sway to her 
“soul of fire,’’ the Duse went on one night in Vienna 
in “‘The Parent’s House,’ and for seventeen days 
after was unable to leave the hotel. 

During her illness, which had been brought on by 
the cold and bad weather, the members of her company 
called daily for information regarding her condition ; 
and learned nothing. Her maid and secretary, who 
were constantly with her, knew as much as the others 
did : nothing, for no one dared to ask questions. 





160 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The super-agitation caused by inactivity, the 
nervous strain added to physical suffering, had enclosed 
her in animmutable silence, during which she abhorred 
talking, or hearing voices. Fortunately for them they 
understood, were sorry, and left her in peace. 

Not so with the Viennese women, who, fascinated 
by the stories in the papers as to her mode of living, 
her courage in supporting the trying illness, were 
moved by a frantic, delirious desire to show their 
respect and affection for the actress who in health so 
thrilled them, and sent richest flowers and fruits to her 
hotel every day; and the Baroness Somaruga, who 
was also ill with a cold, and a patient of Dr. Froschle, 
the Duse’s physician, had him come to her twice a day 
until the Duse was cured, in order to have authentic 
news of the progress of the malady of the beloved 
actress. 


Sada Yacco, the Japanese actress, the only woman 
to act in Japan at that time (I do not know whether 
there has ever been another), was put on the stage to 
please Queen Victoria, and was the only actress ever 
compared with the Duse. Those who saw her in New 
York and also in Paris claim that the mobility of her 
face was similar to the Duse’s and that her death scenes 
were identical; in nothing else, however, did she 
resemble her. 


Switzerland has never been a great theatrical centre, 
but, notwithstanding that fact, the world’s great 
artists have from time to time played there. 

_ As long ago as 1900,*a Zurich critic wrote : 


“We have heard two celebrated actresses, two 
rivals—Eleonora Duse and Sarah Bernhardt—who 
have played here with only a few days’ interval. The 
Duse is absolutely a grand sorceress; she acts with 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 161 


such extreme naturalness as to completely eclipse 
Sarah, who, unfortunately coming after her, appears 
affected and theatrical. 

“ The harmony between the word and the physical 
expression reveals the grand naturalness, and is a 
harmony that few actresses have ever found.”’ 


Going down to Florence from the Porziuncola, where 
she stayed until late that year, 1901, the Duse, full 
of ‘‘ Francesca,’’ went to call on one of her closest friends, 
to tell her the great news that Gabriele d’Annunzio 
had completed the second act of the tragedy. 

The story ended, she became aware of her friend’s 
pale face, and realised that she was ill. In an instant 
her whole attitude changed. She sent for a maid, 
ordered medicines, and deftly rearranged the room. 

“You are better now?” she asked sweetly. 

The patient was. 

She chatted of happy, cheerful subjects until, a 
few minutes before leaving to return to Settignano, 
she leaned with infinite tenderness over her friend. 

“ As soon as you feel well enough, come back to 
one who cares for you. You have a sure companion 
in this friend... . I understand the right to live, 
but—you do not know the signification of separation, 
even the shortest. How many times have I known 
the horror of solitary remoteness from those who loved 
me, and whom I loved! Then I have returned— 
stupefied ; we have seen each other again. . . . I have 
thought to myself, ‘ He has lived, and I also have been 
able to live.’ And very often with that knowledge 
the love ends. Noone isindispensable in this world ! ” 
Then she smiled sadly: ‘‘ Come back, dear little one, 
as soon as you can, to her who cares for you.”’ 

Whatever was agitating her the friend did not 
know then, but the perturbation was so deep and 
sincere that tears came into the eyes of both women. 

L 


162 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Preparing for ‘‘ Francesca di Rimini ’”’ was her hour 
of purest joy. . . . She knew the entire work by heart ; 
and those who were near her at that time declare that 
she did not think of the part created for her, but her | 
exaltation was for the finished “ Italian’ work. 

She paid great attention to her “ toilettes’’ at 
that time, and even wore a few jewels ; for the first 
reading of “‘ Francesca di Rimini” she put on the 
famous string of pearls, a present from the Court of 
Spain (as has already been said). She deluded herself 
that she was at peace with the world and herself, and 
by her prodigious dreams she succeeded in deluding 
her friends as well. 

Curious feminine mixture of spirit and matter ! 

Studying with care the photographic reproductions 
of Benazzo Gozzolin, of primitive figures of Assisi, 
Eleonora Duse exclaimed : 

‘What simplicity! Whatrepose! And this face? 
And this ? It seems to me that the very soul is trying 
tosmile. And you, St. Francis ? Now that‘ Francesca’ 
has been born, you must also give me the theatre at 
Albano.” 

“How does St. Francis enter into a thing of that 
kind ? ” she was asked. “ Saints never have had the 
theatre habit.” 

‘““ He enters just the same.’’ The Duse laughed. 

‘In that case, so be it!” 

But St. Francis must have been otherwise occupied, 
for he never seemed inclined to interest himself. 

‘Francesca di Rimini’’ was being rehearsed at 
the Pergola Theatre, Florence, in November, Igor. 
Meeting a friend on the street, the Duse asked her to 
go to Santa Maria Novella, the loveliest church in 
Florence, with her. 

“Tf you don’t discover what can be my costume for 
the third act of ‘ Francesca,’ you’re no friend of mine.” 

Though Worth, the greatest of all great Parisian 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 163 


creators of fashion, was her costumier, she always 
loved to take him her own ideas, which she had found 
by delving into the archives of ancient paintings. 

The friend was evidently not a friend, for she was 
unable to discover anything suitable. 


In 1896, before her first appearance on the Paris 
stage, the wife of the Austrian Ambassador took Eleo- 
nora Duse to the Worth establishment. When M. 
Jean Philippe Worth was presented to her he, not 
being a theatregoer, had no idea who Mme Duse might 
be, nor was he at all impressed by the pale little middle- 
aged woman... . 

For some minutes after their presentation she 
remained silent, then something amusing was said 
and she smiled, and a sudden unexpected breath of 
spring invaded the beautiful salons of the rue de la 
Paix. Shespoke; her eyes—those marvellous eyes— 
danced, yet the pale face remained sad. 

Before they left, the Countess told M. Worth 
who his new customer was. A few evenings later she 
opened at the Renaissance ; because of the charm that 
he had not been able to forget, and also out of 
curiosity, he went to see her act. 

The first part of the programme was d’Annunzio’s 
ill-fated ‘‘Sogno d’un Mattina di Primavera,” the 
second part “La Locandiera.”” The charm that she 
had had for him the first day in his salons increased a 
hundredfold, and he attended every performance that 
she gave in Paris, becoming against his will the most 
ardent of her many ardent admirers. 

Before the engagement was ended M. Worth had 
made several costumes for the Duse, and they had 
become friends; not as dressmaker and special cus- 
tomer, but as only two cultured and intelligent people 
could be, attracted by the same sentiment—the love 
of the beautiful. 








164 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Before she left he promised her that if she ever 
came to Paris again he would help her to present herself 
so as to please the eye as well as the senses of the most 


difficult of publics; a promise which he faithfully 


kept. 

Means a man of profound culture, M. Worth under- 
stood some Italian—enough to follow her acting, but 
not sufficient for him to appreciate the subtlety of her 
art. . . . After she left Paris he began to study Italian, 
feeling that, if he knew her language, through a perfect 
understanding of her art he could more easily find the 
keynote to the character of the woman. 

At the time of her second appearance in Paris she 
was about forty-five, and looked sixty, and because 
of that she was nervous and fearful of her success. 
It was at that time that M. Worth was a real help to 
her, and their beautiful friendship, which was to last 
until her death, began. 

She knew nothing of the art of make-up, so before 
every performance he went to her dressing-room, work- 
ing over her until he succeeded in making her appear 
from the front as a woman of thirty, which, as he said, 
“was plenty young enough for the parts she played.” 

This art which she learned from him was always 
amusing to her, but she was also proud of it ; though, 
unfortunately, once away from his influence, little by 
little she gave it up. 

Jean Philippe Worth, who, as the Duse so often 
said, knew more about dressing a woman than anyone 
in the world, never attempted to follow the mode 
in the costumes he made for the great actress; he 
merely made the costumes as the completion of the 
stage picture, bringing out what was best in her figure 
and at the same time not detracting attention from 
the play. 

In his line he was as great as Eleonora Duse in hers, 
and as a man he had the rare gift of intuition and 


ee 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 165 


comprehension of human nature. The great actress 
he admired, the woman he pitied, understood, then 
loved—loved her with the purest and truest love 
that man can give to woman. He appreciated her 
intelligence . . . knew why she suffered . .. . He loved 
her, yet he was her friend. 

“The torment that the world knew of and could 
never account for was wherein her real greatness lay,’’ 
he said when talking of the Duse. . . . ‘“‘ You have 
seen a mother dog after the puppies have been taken 
from her—the torment and anguish of the poor beast ; 
no one knows why she is suffering, or how to help 
her. Some think it’s the heartache of doing without 
her young that torments her, but it isn’t that—the 
cause is physical: the milk which nature has given 
her is drying up because it is no longer needed ; she 
can’t give away what she has, and she suffers. Eleonora 
Duse was like that. So great was the supply of the 
milk of human kindness in her nature that she was 
unable to give it all away, and she suffered accordingly. 
The desire to give, give, give was her constant torment.” 

At the time of her appearance in Paris they 
were frequently seen together : she dined at his home, 
he dined alone with her at her hotel; he was in her 
dressing-room each evening that she played, and before 
long the rumour of an even closer relationship was 
going about. 

What the world said or thought made very little 
difference to either of them. If they were accused of 
being lovers, or engaged, was one and the same thing, 
for they understood each other so perfectly, their union 
was so absolutely of intellect and soul that gossip 
could never touch or wound them. 

“Do you know,” he said to her, “that people 
have gone so far as to point me out on the street as 
Eleonora Duse’s husband ? ” 

“ Does that worry you ? ”’ 


166 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 





“No,” he answered ; “it’s for you.”’ 

“T might have a worse husband ? ” 

“Yes andno. Iama home body and could never 
follow my wife around the world, while you could never 
give up acting; so how could we find happiness to- 
gether ? I don’t flatter myself that I could give you 
physically any more than any other man could—so 
what can I do for you ? ”’ 

“You can make me beautiful clothes.” 

“IT can make you beautiful clothes without being 
your husband—so long as we both live I will make 
them, and so long as we both live I will be your friend. 
If we were to marry—who knows? ... 

“Who knows? .. .” she repeated after him. 

And therein lies a secret which she never revealed 
even to her. closest friends: why she who was incon- 
stant in all things remained faithful to her costumier 
for twenty-five years. Nor did anyone dream of the 
love she had for the man, the respect ; and in twenty- 
five years of uninterrupted friendship there was never 
even a suggestion of the physical between them... 
though when they met they were both in the prime 
of life—two Latins, two artistic temperaments. . . . 


One grey afternoon, late in the autumn, they were 
standing at the window of her sitting-room at the 
Hotel Regina, Paris, when she suddenly remembered 
the need of new costumes. 

“T want you tomake me some costumes for 
‘Rosmersolm.’ ”’ 

“Yes ? What are they to be like ? ” 

“ Like that,’’—she indicated the dull, almost leafless 
trees in the Tuileries Garden opposite. 

“That’s rather vague,” he laughed; “ but we will 
see what can be done.” 

The result was three marvellously beautiful cos- 
tumes in the dull dead autumn colours. 





M. JEAN PHILIPPE WORTH. 


p. 166. 


7 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 167 


At another time, for the ‘“‘ Princess George,’ she 
advised him the evening before the performance that, 
as one of the young women in the company was without 
a necessary costume for the third act, she was obliged 
to give her the lovely blue one. 

“And you ?”’ he asked. 

“ Oh, you will make me another one! ”’ 

: By to-morrow evening ? When will you try it 
oS a 

© ieawon't,”’ 
| ne There are times when you demand the impos- 
sible.” 

“ Nothing is impossible with you.” Her radiant 
smile almost convinced him that she was right in her 
statement. 

A remarkable grey creation, embroidered in rhine- 
stones, reached the theatre in good time. When 
she came off after the third act he asked how she 
liked the costume. 

“It’s alljright, isn’t it?’’ She looked critically 
at the long graceful lines. “I put it on without 
remembering that it was new, and I haven’t yet 
had time to think about it.” 

Surely no other actress ever had less vanity. In 
private life she was never elegant, she was merely 
refined, following as little as possible the current mode. 


A short time before the Duse retired from the 
stage, knowing of M. Worth’s serious illness, and that 
he was being sent to Austria for a cure in which he 
had little faith, she came to Paris to see him, Sitting 
beside the easy chair in which he was propped up by 
many pillows, she talked only of herself, of her lone- 
liness, of her ill-health. When she was about to leave 
she told him of her need of him, begged him to get 
well for her sake, as without his friendship to lean on 
life would be too empty for her. 





168 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“And so,” he said, the great love he still bore her 
shining in his kind, kind eyes, “I owe my life to 
Eleonora Duse; for I realised then that what she 
said was true—she did need me; and it was the certain 
knowledge that I could still be useful to her, that I, 
perhaps better than anyone, understood her needs, that 
made me hold on to life, cured me of an incurable 
illness.” 

And all of the three months that he was in Austria 
she telegraphed him twice each day—long, affectionate 
telegrams, each one helping the cure far more than all 
the medicine did. 

Later he went to Switzerland to see her. And when 
she opened again in 1921 he went to Turin to give her 
the courage that she needed for the difficult work of 
facing a new public. 

“She was the grandest actress of my time at least; 
she was as great as any great lady I have ever known, 
or remotely come in contact with, and the grandest, 
most stupendously intelligent woman I have ever had 
the pleasure of talking with: the most witty, gay, 


and the most unhappy. . . . Her courage was beyond 
all comparison. If there are saints in Heaven, she 
is certainly among them. ... Her death took the 


dearest friend I ever had from me, yet recalling her as 
she was when I saw her last, just before she sailed, I 
can only say Hosanna! She thought that after the 
strenuous tour of the United States she would live 
peacefully at Asolo; that would not have been 
possible, for there was no peace for her in this world : 
she was born a nomad, a nomad she had to die.” 


One evening at the Lessing Theatre, Berlin, the 
Duse was obliged by the insistence of her manager 
to give the second act of ‘‘ Antony and Cleopatra,” 
the last act of “‘ Adrienne Lecouvreur,” and, to complete 
the programme, the last scene from Goethe’s, “ Edmont.” 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 169 


. After the grand scene with the slave in “ Cleo- 
patra,’ into which the Duse put her very soul, 
she was too weakened in mind and body to be 
able to put into Adrienne’s tragic raving the force 
that she wished to. 

And in the ‘‘ Edmont”’ scene she gave the unpleasant 
impression of not being sure of her lines, which was 
not true: it was merely that that evening Eleonora 
Duse was not capable of being other than Cleopatra. 

This defect was never looked upon as a defective- 
ness in the artistic constitution, but rather as a divine 
quality that gave the Duse the possibility of being 
the insuperable actress that she was. 


The first performance of “‘ Francesca di Rimini ”’ 
was given in March, 1902, and was, according to the 
Italian papers, the grandest triumph of her career. 
For the actress there was only praise: she was superb 
_—all other adjectives failed in expressing the impression 
she created as Francesca. . . . Francesca was to the 
middle-aged Duse what Juliette was to the girl, 
and “‘ Cosa Sia ”’ to the elder woman. 

Of the tragedy there was much useless discussion. 
I say useless, for it was the Duse’s favourite rédle, 
and would have remained in her repertoire whether 
the public liked it or not. 

“ Francesca ’’’ was given at Vienna, for the first 
time, on the evening of April 2nd of the same 
year. The ovation after the final curtain was for 
the Duse; the new work received little more than 
moderate enthusiasm. She insisted, however, and 
gave it again on the evening of the 4th. 


Talking of Ibsen’s ‘‘ Rosmersolm,”’ the Duse said: 
‘Studying the part of Rebecca West, I had the 
sensation of searching among the clouds for a lost 
sun.’ . Which undoubtedly she found—for her 


170 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


artistic potentiality was capable of penetrating the 
thickest shadows. 

Rebecca West was too incomprehensible a part 
for the public to appreciate, and, even given by the 
Duse, ‘‘ Rosmersolm ”’ had a doubtful and short-lived 
SUCCESS. : 

In Rebecca West Eleonora Duse was searching 
among the clouds for the sun, while in private life she 
was the direct contrary: in that she was a giver of 
sunshine, who created her own clouds and shadows 
and in them found much needless suffering. 

Her susceptibility was so acute as to be almost 
clairvoyant. Before becoming the exalted spirit that 
she eventually was, she had the faculty of carrying 
her pardon, or the desire for it, to a giddy height where 
it was difficult to follow or understand her. 

Never during any phase of her life did she have the 
ability of overlooking little things; instead she 
enlarged them, exaggerated, and in nearly every in- 
stance it was a question of the treachery of her imagina- 
tion, and a remedy for that was therefore impossible. 

She was continually hurting herself against her 
will. When aware of her mistakes, or an unkindness 
to another, she sought in the most humble manner 
to right the wrong. 

For many years she had a humble, faithful maid 
who adored her, and of whom she was very fond. 
At Berlin, in a moment of blind rage, she struck the 
poor defenceless woman, who for several days after 
was in bed with a fever. 

When the Duse heard of Nina’s illness, she went 
to her at once, and, overcome by shame at the thought 
of her brutal act, threw herself on her knees beside 
the bed, and with tears in her eyes exclaimed : 

“Ask for forgiveness immediately! Tell your 
lady that you’re sorry, very sorry to have struck 
her, 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 171 


The Third United States tour was in 1902-3, 
when she presented the d’Annunzio Theatre exclusively: 
“La Citta Morta,” ‘‘ La Gioconda,” and “‘ Francesca 
di Rimini.” 

Through the sublimity of Eleonora Duse’s inter- 
pretation d’Annunzio’s work was admired, became 
celebrated, and was discussed accordingly. For the 
Duse there was enthusiasm, exaltation to the point 
of thorough American exaggeration. 

The critic of the New York Herald wrote : 


“The Duse is the only actress of our time before 
whom a critic must lay down his arms. Even though 


she speaks in a language that not more than one person 


in ten can understand, she is still able to dominate 
the public by her talent. But how does she manage 
to completely master her listeners ? Magnetism alone 
is not enough. Other actresses in a lesser degree have 
the same gift, but are not able to do what she does. 
She conquers the public by her sincerity ; that is her 
secret—she is a genius.” 


“ If the Duse spoke in Finlandese, instead of Italian,”’ 
another critic wrote, “‘she would have made us 
understand equally well, for she possesses the universal 
language: that of sentiment, which all the world 
understands.”’ 


Eleonora Duse’s first appearance on the London 
stage was in 1893. She immediately awakened an 
admiration among the English actors that little by 
little became nothing less than idolatry. ... It isa 
rare thing for the English to mix with foreign actors, 
and especially those who speak a different language, 
and are of another mentality; in other words, the 
Anglo-Saxon does not make friends with the Latin. 
Instead, in a flash the Duse found herself surrounded 


172 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


by the affection and respect of all the satellites of 
the British theatrical world. And the greatest of these 
was England’s own tragedienne, Ellen Terry. . . . As 
far as I am able to learn, this very real friendship dated 
from one of Eleonora Duse’s earliest visits to London, 
and lasted until her death; and of all her actress friends, 
great and small, no other was more valued, or so 
respected. 

Miss Alice Boughton, the New York photographer, 
who had the honour of taking Eleonora Duse’s last 
picture, which is a marvel of artistic beauty, knowing 
of the great friendship between the twofamousactresses, 
made a very special copy of the photograph to present 
to Ellen Terry. This Miss Boughton has refused to 
sell, or permit to be reproduced, even in this book, 
as there are to be only two in existence : Ellen Terry’s, 
and the other in the library of Asolo. 

When the competition began between the Duse 
and the Bernhardt, Bernard Shaw put up a big fight 
for the Italian tragedienne, and following his advice the 
English public immediately decided in the Duse’s favour. 


While travelling in Russia the Duse was suddenly 
taken ill. Jenny Gross, a noted German actress, 
became acquainted with her during the railway journey, 


and kindly helped to take care of her. Arriving at — 


Moscow, the good-hearted actress insisted upon 
remaining near so as to continue her attentions. . . . 
Little by little the charm and fascination of the Duse 
won her so completely that she began talking of a 
German engagement. At first the Duse paid little 
attention to the idea, but ultimately she listened. 
Jenny Gross disinterestedly persuaded Oscar Blu- 
menthal, her manager, to engage the Duse for Berlin. 
. . . S50, owing to the friendship of an actress as famous 
as herself, the Duse received her first engagement 
in Berlin. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 173 


. “No one has ever been able to say exactly what 
the Duse knew how to do, or to be; for in the same 
hour, in the same day, she was old and young, beautiful 
and ugly, bitter and sweet. She possessed the highest, 
most intense grade of abnegation, of humility, and 
of sacrifice, and an extraordinary sense of desire to be 
able to so transform herself. . . . She spoke in Italian ? 
No one was aware of that. Every sensitive person 
understood her voice, her smile, and her glance, and 
whoever had suffered saw his pain rise before him 
on the stage, ennobled, transformed. ...” This was 

Berlin’s opinion of Eleonora Duse first, last,and always. 


Paris put the seal on Eleonora Duse’s fame, but 
there she was not loved as in other countries... . 
Paris respected and admired her but remained faithful 
to Sarah. But Vienna adored her. . . . The following 
extract from a letter written by a simple little woman, 
as she called herself, toa Viennese critic, expresses the 
love of the Austrian public for the Italian tragedienne. 


“ Doesn’t it seem to you that if the ministers in 
the churches had the Duse’s eyes, her voice with its 
infinite modulations, her passion and eloquence, that 
they could reach hearts more easily, as she does from 
the stage? And that the world would soon become 
quite another place, and the spirit of the multitudes 
be kinder ? 

“ Thanks to her magic all those who hear her have 
a new sense of well-being. . . . And how strange it is 
that she exercises this purely moral influence by 
zsthetic means only.” 


While playing in ‘“ La Citta Morta”’ the Duse one 
evening received a letter from an unknown woman, 
who for weeks after she tried in vain to find. . . . The 
letter read: “‘I am a poor woman. Last evening 


174 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


your voice, just your voice, helped me. When will 
you return ?”’ 

The simple words, written on a scrap of cheap 
paper, had great value for the Duse. She longed to 
see the woman, to talk to her, to materially help her. 
And for long the thought that her voice had meant 
something to some unknown person filled her with a 
quiet consolation. 


Edgar Madalena, author of “The Duse at Vienna,” 
and who lived for many years in that city, was asked, 
by a Viennese critic, why the Italians were less appre- 
ciative of their unique actress, their marvellous woman, 
than the Viennese. 

“Her fascination is as strong for us as her art,” 
the critic said; “and to me it seems that the appre- 
ciation of your theatres, and papers, though enthusi- 
astic, unanimous, is not in the slightest degree equal 
to her merit. Who since Verdi’s death represents 
the Italian genius to the world better than she ? 

“The work of your venerated and glorious poet 
does not enter into the universal literature. That of 
a young, romantic poet and dramatist is still too much 
discussed. He who has discovered something worthy 
of note in the electric line has met with rigorous 
opposition in every part of Europe. A linguist seems 
to have arrived at a superior height, but until his work 
becomes a patrimony of culture he is nothing outside 
his own country. 

“All these things every nation envies, the way 
is open to them all it is true. The goal is certainly 
not far away. But, up to the present hour, who, 
apart from Eleonora Duse, has touched it? You have 
no purer, greater glory. She is the herald of your 
genius, and you do not hear her voice.” 

That was all true. The Italians believed that 
they adored their Duse, but their enthusiasm for her 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 175 


went out an hour after the curtain had fallen on the 
last act of the play. They adored her; but the 
adoration was too flamelike ever to bring her her 
heart’s one great desire. The prophet was without 
honour in her own country until the day she died— 
then she became a goddess, and the Government was 
ready to pay for her return trip, to escort her to her 
last resting-place. 

She was the herald of their genius, and they did 
not hear her voice. 


For the farewell performance at Vienna in January, 
1905, the Duse surprised the public by giving “ Adrienne 
Lecouvreur,” for the first time in that city. This was 
her sixty-seventh appearance there. 

The old-fashioned conventional drama, like a bit 
of real life, she rendered with voice and expression 
so true that the audience was actually filled with pity for 
Adrienne’s suffering, as though a living tragedy were 
taking place before their very eyes. 

The drama ended, no one moved, no one remem- 
bered the long line that would be waiting in the cloak- 
room. For a second after the curtain fell there was 
silence, then like a clap of thunder the applause broke 
forth. They called for her again and again, while, 
from orchestra and boxes, wreaths and bunches of 
flowers tied with the Italian colours were thrown to her. 

And the Duse, exhausted by the suffering she had 
lived through, overcome by the intense ovation,humbly, 
in the midst of glory, saluted the public with gracious 
bows, and, stooping, picked up the flowers; then 
with a smile and glance more eloquent than words 
said simply : 

“ Arrivederct ! ”’ 


Voices—hostile, unpleasant voices—began criti- 
cising the Duse-d’Annunzio relationship ; insinuating 





176 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


that she was spending her hard-earned money for his 
extravagances. It was generally known that for the 
five d’Annunzio plays which she had put on, for the 
scenery, costumes, etc., she had spent a considerable 
fortune—a fortune more or less thrown away, for two 
of the plays,“ Sogno di un Mattino,” etc., and “‘ Gloria,” 
had been complete failures. The other three, while 
successful, were not making enough money to repay 
the Duse, or even to satisfy her as a star, or d’Annunzio 
as author. 

Despite all obstacles she kept on, and by her ten- 
acious will she was forcing the world to accept him 
and his work, making his name famous. 

The story of his prodigious spending continued to 
spread. He was making frequent visits to Paris not 
only for business. There were rumours that his finan- 
cial condition was not as good as it should be. 
That he was spending was no doubt true, but that 
she was paying for his extravagances was not true. . 
The Duse knew of the vulgar stories going about 
but would not deign to deny or have them denied. 

She spent her money of her own free will, in the 
hope of a superior art, and, in her fervour to reach 
the perfection and harmony of the scene, lost sight of 
the financial ruin it might eventually bring her, 

She was considered representative of the real 
Italian theatre, and in 1902 her costumes and scenic 
effects for all of the d’Annunzio plays were equal in 
richness to those to be seen in any European capital. 

She had no manager backing her as an actress in 
England or the United States would have had; no 
funds except her own. 

The public continued hostile, and the beloved 
poet was not always as grateful and devoted as a less 
arrogant and almighty soul might have been... . 
Clouds began to hover over the villa of rest at Settig- 
nano; hours of doubt and fear were passed in the 


oe A} ee eee: 
; ee 
ied hated 
¢ 
, 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 177 


quiet study of the Porziuncola. . . . Often the eyes 
of the woman fighting her fight alone were filled with 
tears. . . . The profoundness of a virile passion, and 
the heroic need of moral domination in order to subdue 
her desires, without respite, worked within her, forcing 
her to follow her destiny. 

And when the garden of the thousand and one 
roses was in blossom she was again on her way, sadder 
than the year before, but ever anxious to prove herself 
worthy of her name, and as she said : 

“ Now that the flowers are in bloom I must go 
away from them, this time to Paris, where I cannot 
see the beauties of Nature ; I must stay all day 
in my room in order to have the strength for the 
evening’s work. What is the thread that holds so 
inharmonious a thing together ! ”’ 


Francisque Sarcey’s article on the Duse at the 
Nouveau Theatre expresses the general impression of 
her at that time and later, as the same article was 
reprinted in Comedia after her death. I will give 
it as briefly as possible. 

M. Sarcey speaks of her twenty-five years of un- 
interrupted success, the romance of her life, comparing 
her to George Sand; then he gives his own personal 
impressions : 


“ The scene was ugly, the stage fittings poor, ordi- 
nary” (this does not agree with the stories of her 
extravagance) ; “the audience for the most part did not 
know a word of Italian, yet they seemed ravished, 
passionately captivated. . . . They were subservient 
to the souveraine seduction of the actress. ... 

“ Of what is this charm composed? The Duse is 
not pretty, in the banal conception of the word. Her 
features are usual, the olive skin devoid of freshness, the 
nose slightly too large, and the brow high. Certainly 

M 





178 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


hers is not the beauty of the wax busts in the 
hairdressers’ windows, nor William Bouguereau’s virgins, 
nor the refined Parisians of Chartrau, or Baschet. ... 
She does not even pretend to ignore her physical imper- 
fections, so light does she make of them that most 
people have heard the spirited words attributed to her : 

‘““* When I appear before a new public, my first 
success is due to my ugliness.’ 

“There is coquetry in this statement, for only a 
woman sure of herself would make a similar admission. 
. . . Suppose then that the first vision of the traged- 
ienne is not favourable, a second and Jasting impression 
entirely effaces the first. . . . The face, that for some 
is dull in repose, during the action of the play is 
transfigured and becomes as the clear mirror where 
the sentiments and passions are reflected....A 
singular beauty emanates from her; nota cold, classic 
beauty, but a warm, holding beauty, where some- 
thing indefinable, enigmatic, like in certain of Leonardo 
da Vinci’s figures, is felt. 

“But above all it is the Duse’s eyes that bewitch 
you. Her glance is a profound and melancholy poem 
(except in ‘La Locandiera ’) in the sober plays, even 
in the light moments her eyes keep their sad veil. 
Only she laughs. The more pensive the expression, 
the younger the smile; the regard is autumn, the 
smile spring. The result is an infinitely delicious 
contrast. On the upper part of the face one sees 
dreams, torment, the fatality of love and death; on 
the lips the gladness of living! The Duse’s eyes advise 
us that the joys of this world are fugitive, and her 
mouth informs us that a little emotion sweetens human 
suffering. 

“Yes, the more I reflect, the more I believe that 
the artist’s principal charm lies in this antithesis, 
in the opposition of the laughter and tears that mingle 
like the sunshine and rain of April showers... . 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 179 


We are touched because the most delicate fibres of 
our sensibility are stirred, for most of us find ourselves 
in this conflict between life and dreams. ...I do 
not know whether the spectator analyses his feelings 
with the exactness that I do, but certainly they are 
the same. . . . There is no doubt that voices do exist 
the mere timbre of which cause a sort of enchantment ; 
and there are also faces whose expression alone awakens 
an irresistible attraction. Eleonora Duse’s face is one 
of those. 

“It is to Nature then that she owes her most 
precious gifts. And Art is added to Nature—on this 
point I frankly confess my astonishment. When she 
came to Paris in 1897 I did not have the occasion to 
approach her. The innumerable pages that I read 
about her at that time, and since then the souvenirs 
of Count Primoli, finely and tenderly true, and the 
more lucid account of Jules Lemaitre, gave me an 
idea of her talent. In eight years an actress 
can in some means modify her style, her manner 
of expression....I had heard everywhere of 
the Duse’s simplicity, her lack of artifice, her 
disdain for the usual petty tricks of the trade that 
an artist stoops to in order to render herself pleasing 
to the public. . . . However, admirable as her acting 
is, it is not totally exempt from trickery. She is 
ingenious, and moreover she is Italian. And as 
everyone knows in all Italians there is the natural 
mimic. 

“And she is a child of the theatre, grand- 
daughter of actors. .. . She went on the stage at 
four, and has never left it. So heredity aptitude 
is allied to her professional experience. Every 
action, every movement, every word is in accord 
with the scenic necessity, and the stage illus- 
sion. There is never a blunder, nor a false note; 
occasionally an emphasis in address. In ‘ Claude’s 


180 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life | 








Wife’ and still more so in ‘ Camille,’ it is remarked 
that she more than willingly faces the house, keeping 
the partner, who gives the cues, before her, his back 
to the public; thus diminishing his importance by 
giving the illusion of his being a mere accessory, or 
piece of furniture placed there for her use. She 
subordinates him to herself until he is no longer 
a living personality, an independent force of the 
drama. 

‘“‘One can equally reproach her for over-gesticula- 
ting. This fault, ifitisa fault, struck me partly because 
of the impossibility of understanding what is said on 
the stage. . . . Detached from the text our attention 
is naturally called to the exterior of the interpreter, 
her physiognomy, her attitudes, walk, the evolution 
of her hands—those noble hands, by turn caressing, 
sensual, chaste, lovingly maternal. Here we consider 
the Duse much as Isuppose one contemplated Debureau, 
and her gestures take on the same importance as in 
a pantomime. And that is no doubt why they seem 
over-exuberant, too multiplied ; but at least they are 
always supremely regulated. This precision, rigorous 
correspondence between the senses, and the phrases, 
the tone that accentuates it, the physical movements, 
and facial expression are the characteristic traits of 
the Duse. 

“Not having received her confidence I do not know 
what her method of work is. I presume that when 
she studies a new rdle she establishes it strongly, 
minutely, keeping it near Nature and at the same time 
giving extreme care to the truth. She takes it into 
her spirit, as it were, and becomes a part of it; fixing — 
the silhouette, making the shades like the architect 
who draws the first plans for his house, or a painter 
who makes a sketch before beginning the portrait, 
so as to work on solid, well-prepared ground. Eleonora 
Duse does not permit instinct alone to guide her, nor 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 181 





do I believe she improvises, or, if she does, it is very 
much less than supposed ; to me the surprising reality 
of her acting is the fruit of attention and patient effort, 
that having reached justly the point of perfection 
is no longer visible. . . . Thisis Voltaire’s old formula : 
The perfection in writing consists in composing easy 
verses with difficulty ; the Duse reaches the simplicity 
by using simple means—the hardest thing for an 
actress to do. She is absolutely sure and most 
prolific in resources. 

“ But wait! In Eleonora Duse there is something 
more than the actress, there is the artist as well, which 
ennobles, and keeps her where the unanimous admira- 
tion has placed her. To the science of technique that 
she has acquired, and which she uses with astonishing 
mastery, this rare woman joins a force that belongs 
only to the élite: the faculty of living the part at 
the time that she plays it, to feel the emotions, the 
passions of the character that she represents, and to 
forget, if one can say so, herself while impersonating 
another. The fever of the work invades her, catches 
her up in a hurricane fury, and carries the audience 
along with her; like her you are quivering, panting, 
unsettled. This all explains the fanaticism that she 
excites, and the exalted and devoted form of worship 
that is offered her. 

“ It is only impartial to add that this phenomenon 
is not produced at every performance; it varies in 
intensity, and depends upon her disposition, the state 
of her nerves, an accident, often needless, which 
agitates her at the moment of going on the stage. 
On certain evenings Eleonora Duse plays from her 
heart, on others it is the profession that plays. She 
forgets herself entirely or she only half forgets. In 
the latter case she is merely good (she could never be 
bad), in the former case she is inimitable, incomparable, 
if not sublime. She is just and never deceives herself. 


182 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Sometimes she is radiant: then she has found forget- 
fulness; at other times she is furious, and takes 
the theatre in execration: forgetfulness has not 
come. Upon what does her perpetual inequality 
depend... ? If you hear her twice in the same 
réle,;she almost never communicates the identical im- 
pression. From this proceeds the diverse judgments 
which implicate her. These continue to be re- 
peated : 

““ She is entirely artificial ! ’ 

‘““ «She is entirely spontaneous ! ’ 

‘In fact, she justifies the two appreciations accord- 
ing to the case, or state, of nerves : now it is the actress 
who predominates, now the artist. The genius of the 
Duse is made of the close union of the two—actress 
and artist—and those two elements together complete 
each other, and form the perfection, the inspiration, 
the science.”’ 

He continues with a lengthy comparison of the 
Duse and the Bernhardt, certainly not to the detri- 
ment of the latter, for a Frenchman never would have 
been guilty of belitting one of his own. Francisque 
Sarcey was a Frenchman first and a critic second, 
so ended by comparing the Italian and French school 
of acting to the detriment of the former. . . . Here I 
should like to add my personal opinion. As I am 
neither French nor Italian my opinion is unbiassed. 
After having lived ten years in Europe and more than 
half of that time in Italy, where I have seen all of 
the best actors as I have in Paris, I feel that if there 
is a point of superiority on either side it is in favour 
of the Italian school. 


Eleonora Duse was never indifferent to what was 
published about her. Praise was always pleasing, 
unkind attacks hurt, and defence moved her deeply ; 
and she never lost an opportunity, directly or indirectly, 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 183 


to thank those who had defended her. Sometimes 
her thanks were so timid and veiled that it was 
a long process of proving facts in order to under- 
stand. 


The great French master critic wrote : 

“She is much more than beautiful. Of a slightly 
olive opaque pallor, the high brow firm under the 
thick black hair, serpentine eyebrows, the beautiful 
eyes of the clement glance, the rather large mouth, 
heavy in repose but incredibly mobile and plastic (in 
the true sense of the word). .. . I have never seen 
an actress who played, one might say, with her face, 
nor whose physiognomy so changed by eloquent ex- 
pressions. I believe that it is because of her face 
that the Duse is so extraordinary an actress. . 
The fundamental expression is sad, but when she 
unexpectedly shows her teeth, which are indeed 
beautiful, it is not the banal splendour of white stage 
teeth surrounded by carmine lips, it is something 
more complicated, more secret ; the contrast between 
the vivid whiteness of the teeth, the pale lips, and the 
tone of the face without make-up is equivalent to 
the dissonance that in music caresses, a little dis- 
turbingly, the excited ear. The voice, clear and fine, 
is younger than the face. The hands are thin, flexible 
and soft ; the Duse, with an exquisite gesture, frequently 
passes them across her brow, or temples. All this 
gives the idea of a being of extraordinary sen- 
sibility, a creature infinitely impressionable, even 
restless. 

“In spite of certain moments in which her own 
ignorance of artifice risks making her seem artificial, 
we owe to the Duse a sensation of truth that does not 
resemble anything that we know; and has made us 
discover, retrospectively, the affectation of the ani- 
mated but vulgar manner of acting of certain of our 





184 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


actresses, whom sometimes we have praised for their 
naturalness.”’ 


The periods of rest were lengthening, the working 
seasons becoming shorter and shorter. The always 
delicate constitution was less and less able to resist 
the constant strain of travelling, the nerve-force 
consumed by acting. And the doctors were beginning 
to insist more and more upon a long, uninterrupted 
rest. 


Shortly after Sarah Bernhardt’s memoirs were 
published in the Strand Magazine, a certain part that 
applied to Eleonora Duse appeared in the leading 
Italian newspapers. 

The grand Sarah, considered by her countrymen 
as the world’s unique actress, had stooped to publicly 


announcing her jealousy for the famous Italian actress, 


her rival, whom she hated under her smiling mask. 
By proclaiming the Duse’s inferiority, she loudly 
proclaimed her own. 

“Eleonora Duse,”’ she wrote, “is more a grand 
actress than an artist ; she merely follows in other’s 
footsteps. She does not imitate these others, for she 
plants flowers where they planted trees, and trees 
where there were flowers; but, with all her art, she 
has never created a part that can be identified with 
her name; she has never created a being or vision 
that makes one think immediately of her. She has 
done nothing more than to put on other people’s gloves, 
wrong side out. And all this she has done with infinite 
graciousness and with careless unconsciousness. . . . 
Eleonora Duse is a grand actress, even a very, very 
grand actress, but she is not an artist.”’ 

With what fascinating ease this interesting opinion 
of one great woman for another shows the insidious 
feline temperament; what a pity that the picture 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 185 


of the ‘ wrong-side-out gloves’”’ permits one to see 
also that they had been mended. 

How much better it would have been for the world’s 
opinion of her if Sarah Bernhardt had been a tiny bit 
less a grand artist, and that same tiny bit more a 
grand woman. 

As Eleonora Duse said: ‘‘ No famous man or 
woman, and least of all an actress, should ever write 
their memoirs ; or if they did they should wait until 
the age of earthly jealousy had passed . . . for when 
the edifice is tottering why call attention to it? That 
is what memoirs are doing—reminding the public that 
we are old, asking them to thrill over the story of our 
past glory, our successes on the stage, and off ; opening 
the book of our private life in order to be pitied or 
scorned. ... No, an actress should never write 
her memoirs, unless she has become grand enough to 
keep the pettiness to herself, for attacking a rival is 
documentary evidence of a lack of self-assurance. 
To speak well of our sisters in art is a proof of grandness, 
and until we are able to do that we should remain 
silent.”” (May, 1923.) 


The newspapers all over the world criticised Sarah 
Bernhardt severely for her judgment of Eleonora 
Duse ; and the Duse herself replied : 

“Tell Madame Bernhardt that I am not writing 
my memoirs, nor have I any intention of writing 
them; but that she had better pray God that I 
never change my mind.” 

And some time later she gave out a statement in 
direct answer to the Bernhardt’s accusation : 

: ‘“‘T disdain to be the virtuous person who makes a 

fuss over her ability ; I also disdain to put my personal 
successes above the play, because the interpreter of 
a work of art must be merely the faithful attentive 
collaborator, who forces herself to transmit, without 





186 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


deforming it, the poet’s creation to the public... . 
It has been said that in my new repertoire I have 
not created any new personage. This I consider is my 
best eulogy.”’ 


For years her artistic personality was laid bare to the 
public ; her private life a tissue of silence. The world 
had never been able to discover anything scandalous 
about her. . . . Who loved her or who she loved was 
unknown, and if it had not been for her insistence upon 
the public acceptance of his plays, no doubt she would 
have succeeded in keeping her love for d’Annunzio 
a secret. 

In the silence regarding her private life she was 
certainly also superior to Sarah Bernhardt—far more 
a lady. 


When it was announced that the great Italian 
actress would play at the Theatre d’CEuvre, Paris 
(a theatre that, notwithstanding its noble attempt at 
art, is second-class), Sarah Bernhardt offered, as in 
1897, the hospitality of her own theatre ; perhaps thus 
hoping to cancel the bad impression that her deplorable 
judgment of Eleonora Duse’s art had given. 

Nobly and serenely the Duse replied : 

“ Pas d’oublt dans mon ceur. . . . My first ‘hove 
while writing you upon my arrival in Paris is one of 
gratitude. . . . [have never forgotten your hospitality, 
and I never will. . . . The other time when I was here 
you did everything to be great and good to me. You 
accustomed me to a sweet intimacy that for me had 
become a profound and tender respect. 

“Ah! why, madam, is it that to-day my heart 
does not find its way to yours. What attitude must 
a grateful, worthy, attentive soul take? I cannot 
ignore the judgment that you expressed for my art— 
I cannot ignore it, admit it, nor forget it; because we 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 187 





can none of us forget the most fruitful force which 
vibrates in us. But—the memory of your judgment 
of my art must not make me forget your past kind- 
ness: for in life every hour has its value... and I 
like to recall in this moment the time when you were 
perfect and good towards me. 

“So what must I do? 

“ Again I want to repeat, madame, these affection- 
ate words: Pas d’oublt dans mon ceur. I conserve 
the remembrance of one thing, and the memory of 
another. 

“ T beg that you will remember, also, my unlimited 
admiration and my unending gratitude. 

: “ELEONORA DUSE.”’ 


In 1905 she took part in a performance of Gorki’s 
“The Poor House’”’ with a French company at the 
Nouveau Theatre. It was probably the first time 
that any play had ever been given when the actors 
spoke in two languages. 

The first performance by the French company 
had not been very successful, but the announcement 
that Eleonora Duse would appear filled the theatre. 
Many French actresses, among them Réjane, were in 
the first tier boxes to greet her. When she made 
her appearance in the unadorned robe of Vassilissa, 
the mistress of the Poor House, a warm applause wel- 
comed her. The applause died out almost immediately ; 
the audience were anxious to hear the harmonious 
voice reply in Italian to the cues of the other actors 
in French. . . . Everyone, even those who could not 
understand the signification of her words, felt the 
subtle fascination of her voice, and admired the art 
and naturalness of her gestures. .. . But notwith- 
standing the best intentions of the public, the 
complete impression was not entirely satisfactory. 
... The grand actress tried to hide the contrast 


188 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


between the two languages and to bridge over the 
distance between the two styles of acting, attenuating 
the accents and resorting to blending of diction— 
without the desired result. 

As the French part of the audience knew that the 


Duse spoke their language perfectly, they deplored | 


the fact that she had not consented to play in French. 
. . While the Italian spectators received a compli- 
cated impression, they were grateful to their actress 


for having wished to declare her fidelity to the Italian. 


theatre by refusing to act in French... . By this 
fact she clearly belied the stories going about as to her 
intention of abandoning the Italian stage for the French. 

And if she had abandoned the Italian stage . . .? 
Would it have been such a terrible thing? Other 
actresses have left their own country, have ever acted 
in a foreign tongue, and have brought only honour 
to their names and glory to their countries— 
countries which may not have been able to support 
them. And instead of eternally travelling, as the poor 
Duse did, they find a theatre at their disposition 
which their own country may have denied them, and 
they are able to live ina certain modest ease. . . . Had 
Eleonora Duse acted entirely in Paris for the last few 
years of her career, who knows if she would have been 
forced to die on the stage ? 


A truly dolorous incident in the Duse’s life was 
the misunderstanding between her and Giacinta Pez- 
zana, the grand old actress who, while still young, 
was great enough to recognise the genius of the Duse, 
and to sacrifice herself in giving the younger woman 
a chance. 

And when the Duse was being discussed, her art 
criticised—even though she had passed the pinnacle 
there were still actresses jealous of her—the Pezzana 
came forward and openly offered a defence : 





es cute a EAR arse ASC AREER. SEEPS ETS“ REDONTONE ener snan oem 
Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 189 





“They are still talking about the original and 
nervous actress,’ she wrote. “I feel that she is what 
she is absolutely by her own merit. She is Eleonora 
Duse, she is unique ; and she owes nothing either to 
Emanuel or to me, for she has never been to school 
with us, or, in fact, anyone.”’ 

When the Duse read the above she was on the 
point of going to the Pezzana, just as many times the 
Pezzana had had the idea of seeking ‘“ Eleonora of 
the unforgettable Arab eyes.’ But the reconcilia- 
tion did not come about because they were both 
afraid of not being believed. 

And despite the continual efforts of mutual 
friends, neither woman would move from her strong- 
hold. 


Irresistible in her gay moments, frequently poig- 
nant, astute in her speech, Eleonora Duse, for the 
woman quite as much as for the great actress, was much 
sought after by men in the highest walks of life. She 
was not a flirt; prince or pauper were the same to 
her : enough that his character and intelligence made 
him simpatico. But she was not always in the humour 
even for the dearest friends, as most of them knew 
to their sorrow. 

She was lunching with a friend at an hotel in 
Florence. A man alone at a near-by,table had been 
watching her intently from the moment she entered the 
dining-room. 

He was fairly young, blond, witha full beard ; stiff 
and haughty, except when his admiring glance was 
turned on the Duse. 

“That man at the next table is Baron Keller!” 
the friend exclaimed. 

“Ah!” the Duse smiled maliciously. . “I can’t 
stand him! Alors je vais me payer sa téte !”’ 

“No, Eleonora, be good, I beg of you! ”’ 





190 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“No use to ask me that; I see you’re not gay this 
morning, so I must give youa good laugh.” French, 
which she adored, she often abused in conversation. 
“ Out, ge vais me payer sa téte !”’ 

Resigned, the friend waited to see how the poor 
Baron was to pay; for when Eleonora Duse wanted 
to do a thing there was no power on earth that could 
stop her. 

Luncheon over, they left the dining-room, followed 
by the blond man. . . . Smiling, correct, he advanced 
towards the Duse. 

“T had the honour of making your acquaintance 
at New York.” 

“ Ah! ’’—the face was immobile. 

“Madame does not remember ? ”’ 

“ No ”’—still more uninterested. 

“‘T understand ’’—he was abashed; “‘ I am of too 
little importance, too simple a man.” 

Se Bee 

“ Naturally you would not—— 

ees 8 oes 

“ Recall me.” 

“ Naturally.” 


a9 


‘“ However, you will certainly 1 remember the homage 





of my Club the evening of 

“Ah!” the Duse interrupted, exasperated. ““D—— 
it all, of course I don’t remember ! ”’ 

The promised laugh caught the friend as she fled 
to the door where the hitherto implacable groom was 
discreetly smiling ; and even Baron Keller, after the 
first mortification, laughed as he stooped to kiss the 
beautiful hand repentantly offered by the seeress. 


Eleonora Duse’s firm friends among the great 
artists of France were Suzanne Desprez and Yvette 
Guilbert. Both these famous women possess many 
interesting letters and photographs of the Duse, and 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 191 


not the least are the three photographs which Yvette 
Guilbert recently received from Miss Alice Boughton, 
the American photographer, and to whom she replied : 


“ VERY DEAR BOUGHTON 

“Ho! what a darling thought to have s. i tome 
my Duse ! 

“She looks so much what she was when we saw 
her before her sailing to America, poor great artist! 
Her soul, her brain are in those portraits. ... Thank 
you ! 

“I suppose now it is hot in your New York. In 
my Paris it is already dreadful. It is good for the 
evening's singing at my old Ambassadeurs. 

“Please kiss all my friends. How are they? 
And you all, please don’t forget the old 

UN VETTES 


The Duse was not of a confessional character, but 
essentially spiritual and religious. In her early life 
she followed indifferently the creed laid down by her 
motier—the simple faith of most simple Italians— 
which hard work gradually diminished in intensity. 
Towards middle life religious problems began to vex 
her, and from then on much of her time was given to 
the study of religious questions. 

As her style of acting belonged to no school, so 
in a certain way one might say the same of her religion ; 
she possessed a creed entirely her own, a religion that 
enabled her to approach the Supreme Power without 
the intervention of a priest. . . . Her creed was the 
creed of human kindness; not exactly the Golden Rule, 
something even grander, if that were possible; not 
too exacting, but ennobling. .. . It was that, added 
to her strong will, that made it possible to face life 
through and to keep on living nobly as she did when, 
the long dream ended, she awakened to find the day— 


192 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the perfect day—had come to an end, and only the 
afterglow of the sunset was lighting the Porziuncola. .. . 

No matter what tragedies were taking place in the 
woman Duse’s life, the actress must still move on, 
for the public wanted her, loved her. 

Sho tly after the death of the famous Florentine 
painter, Gordigani—who unfortunately left his family 
in straitened circumstances—the Duse took his 
daughter with her as friend and travelling companion. 
Not out of pity, but because of the great affection 
she had for the entire family and especially the father 
who was gone. A desire to be of material help may 
have prompted the kind act, but was not the only 
reason for the delightful relationship which lasted for 
several years. 

During one of her engagements at Vienna, the 
Duse presented Mendelsohn, the banker, to the 
Signorina Gordigani, whom he later married. 

Herr Mendelsohn had for some time been interested 
in the Duse’s financial affairs, investing money for 
her, and acting as general adviser. . . . In fact it 
was through his suggestion that she eventually put 
practically all of her capital in an indemnity policy, 
that was to pay her 30,000 lire a year for the balance 
of her life; before the War that was an income that 
would have enabled her to live in Italy in;comparative 
luxury. 


In 1906 the Duse gave a performance at Drury 
Lane for the celebration of Ellen Terry’s jubilee ; 
which, I believe, was her last appearance in London 
until June, 1923. . 


No actress except the famous Japanese has ever 
been compared to Eleonora Duse, nor has she ever 
been supposed to be like anyone else, though a few 
very old theatregoers found in her voice and the 


sd 
2 3 
nee 
=. ee 
ip 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 193 


magnetism of her gestures something of the great 
Rachel, the French actress who died in 1858, at the 
age of thirty-eight. . . . In the life of the two women, 
as well as their art, there was something strangely 
similar: Rachel was not a stage child, but she began 
acting when a mere baby, and at eighteen created a 
furor in Paris as Camille in Carneille’s ‘“‘ Les Horaces.”’ 
When a child she followed her father about, a Jewish 
pedlar, singing and playing the guitar ; and before her 
death she had played in Russia, England, and the 
United States—not an easy thing to do with the 
means of travelling what they were from 1848 to 
1858. 

The tragic art, the wandering life, the lack of early 
education, the great foreign triumphs, the delicate 
health, the marvellous voice—all might have 
_ applied to the life of Eleonora Duse who was born 
the year Rachel died, born to follow her, to equal 
her. ...And in the Duse’s repertoire there was 
always one play that had belonged to the famous 
French tragedienne—*‘ Adrienne Lecouvreur.”’ 


“D’Annunzio has abandoned her,’’ was_ being 
repeated on all sides. 

Ah! only a person who had not known Eleonora 
Duse could believe that that was true. Only a person 
who had not entered, even for a moment, into the 
spirituality of the two Florentine villas on the 
hillside of Settignano, where admirable days of 
fervid work of the highest creative intellectuality 
were lived, could ever imagine the relations existing 
there ; could picture the moments of exaltation, the 
depths of torment and despair. . . . Eleonora Duse’s 
love for d’Annunzio was a consuming passion: she 
was jealous to the point of depravity—making his 
life insupportable. . . . She had completely lost the 
mystic charm that she had had for him; she had 

N 


194 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


become too human, too much like other women. .. . 
And when the mystic veil fell from her, there was 
nothing left. 

Her attraction for him had never been physical. 
She was old before her time, unhealthy, and not dainty 
as he wished his mistress to be ; and the world was full 
of women who offered him what she lacked. 

Eleonora Duse knew perfectly wherein she was 
deficient ; knew how she had inspired him, and that 
the time of inspiration had passed. She knew that 
he had never loved her body, and that the madness 
had lasted only so long as he found a source in her, 
so long as there was anything in her mentality for 
him to absorb... . 

She did not bow to fate and go calmly on her way 
as a more ordinary woman might have done. She 
did not give up easily : she fought against her destiny, 
for years made his life insupportable by her continual, 
unreasonable jealousy. 

She had no real friend among all the women who 
called themselves her friends, no one to show her 
wherein she was making mistakes, no one to advise 
her. Alberto P , the well-known Italian writer 
and close friend, says of her: ‘‘ What woman in all 
the world was so absolutely alone, so little understood ?”’ 

No, Eleonora Duse was not a victim: if there was 
a victim in the case it was Gabriele d’Annunzio. 
(This statement I have from a mutual friend who knew 
them both well—a very great lady, who wishes to 
remain unknown.) 

For a year and a half d’Annunzio was madly in 
love with Eleonora Duse of the beautiful hands— 
he was in love with those strange, mystic, unearthly, 
divine hands and what they aroused in his poetical 
imagination ; and the balance of the time he was 
trying to extricate himself from the mesh they had 
woven about him. ... For a year and a half she 





ay 
oo Se Ca, ea 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 195 


had been his only inspiration ; after that she continued 
to offer moments of intense fervour, which are shown 
in his work; but the vital spark had been blown 
out by the contrary winds about them... . 

She was not abandoned, for, as I have said before, 
with her psychic perceptions and supernatural sensi- 
bility she had always known, even when she wanted 
to delude herself, that the day would come when she 
must take up her march alone. 

She had a dual personality in the fullest meaning 
of the phrase. She was of a superb intellect, capable 
of doing the most absurd things; she was grand in 
thought and action, and she was petty. She was 
the personification of refinement, and in anger violent 
almost to the point of vulgarity. Sincere, but 
changeable as the wind ; stubborn, yet easily influenced; 
strong to defend, easy to offend; a woman of 
intense desires, passionate friendships, that in a 
second might change to ardent dislike. Hopelessly 
extravagant, mean to the point of stinginess with 
herself, generous to the extreme with those who 
had her sympathy. ... A divine, difficult mistress, 
a tender, loving companion—until someone or some- 
thing changed her. . . . Adorable, impossible, 

It was this knowledge and understanding of her 
own character that was one of the reasons for the 
torment that constantly obsessed her. . . . She was 
what she was, and she longed to be different... . She 
tried with all the power of her strong will to change, 
to overcome self; but it was not until later that she 
really succeeded. | 

Whatever may be said to the contrary by the 
many men and women who claim to have known her 
intimately, one thing must be insisted upon: that, 
despite the “‘ wrong side,’”’ the merely human side 
which seems so much worse in comparison to the 
“right side,’ the divine side, Eleonora Duse was too > 


196 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


superior a woman ever to be understood, or appre- 
ciated by other than intellects as grand as her own. 
During her long walk through life it is doubtful if 
she ever encountered very many. 

How many of the people who profited by her 
generosity ever really loved her, or tried to fill the 
loneliness of her heart ; ever cared enough to wonder 
what the other truth might be—the truth that she 
never told ? 

At the Porziuncola, amidst the effluvium of two 
thousand roses, in the atmosphere between religious 
and pastoral, among the olive and cypress trees, 
before her the Tuscan landscape, lovely to the heart 
and eyes, Eleonora Duse was in her perfect frame. 
There she was at home, her real self, far from the 
calumny of the world ; the other side, jealous, capricious, 
unworthy, was cast aside. 

Untiring soul, d’Annunzio had called her in the 
happy days of the past; she was mistress of active 
peace, of working silence. Alone, but not resting: 
for her there was no repose. Even if she closed her 
eyes, and the mouth were sealed, all the pulsating 
soul would have been visible in the magnificent face ; 
only what was in the alert mind would have remained 
her secret. 

No one in the world ever knew Eleonora Duse. 

A lady (who has asked me not to mention her name 
as she is not known professionally) who was intimately 
acquainted with the Duse for twenty years, more 
intimately than anyone else, and who was with her 
and in her confidence during the d’Annunzio period, 
admits that, after twenty years, she knew her no better 
than at the end of one year. 

Pages of creation had been lived in the two com- 
municating villas that must have had episodes of 
splendour of the highest human interests. There the 
most beautiful of d’Annunzio’s poetry came to life, 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 197 


and no matter how he or any other person may deny 
it, the influence of Eleonora Duse’s strong personality 
is felt in every word... . 

Camillo Antona-Traversi, the eminent and prolific 
Italian journalist and a life-long friend of the Duse’s, 
said a short time ago: 

“ All told, she worked for sixty years, and that’s 
along time. . . . She lived in the fullness of the word, 
and in the same fullness suffered, needlessly. She 
made d’Annunzio as a playwright, and she helped 
to make several lesser lights. She spent her money 
‘to put on his plays, and not one of them was ever a 
success, or would not have been without her personality 
to back it. . . . She spent her money as well as her 
health for an ideal. . . . When d’Annunzio first knew 
her she was in the prime of life; when they separated 
she was old, aged by unhappiness and mental torture 
that had probably drained too heavily on the always 
delicate physical constitution, and was most probably 
the fundamental reason for her retiring when she did. 
.. . In fifty years even her name will be forgotten, 
but the poetry that she helped to create may live 
on. Poor Eleonora!” 

Though the Capponcina had been sold and the 
two nomads taken to their separate caravans, the 
Duse still kept the Porziuncola; perhaps for purely 
sentimental reasons, for after the separation she spent 
very little time there. ... Florence still attracted 
her, for in 1907 she rented a small apartment on Via 
dei Della Robbia, No. 54. It wasa delightful ground- 
floor flat, with a tiny flower-filled garden flooded with 
sunlight. There she passed many months of enforced 
rest during 1907 and 1908. 

One of Eleonora Duse’s manias was the renting 
and furnishing of apartments, always with the exquisite 
taste for which she was noted. 

During a certain time when she was prosperous 





198 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


she had the Porziuncola, the apartment in Florence, 
one in Venice, and another in Rome; and with all 
these little homes waiting for her coming, she frequently 
stayed in an hotel. For a reason which only she could 
ever understand she preferred a badly-furnished room in 
a modest hotel, generally on the top floor, where there 
was the view of the city and surrounding country... . 

Her great love of Nature was demonstrated in her 
way of living more than in anything else; and just 
as the same people would not satisfy all her moods, 
so it was with Nature: one day she needed the moun- 
tains, the next only the sea pleased her, while the 
day after it would be the open plains that called her. 

And in each new scene she found something to 
gratify her artistic sense, something that for a moment 
stilled the spirit of unrest—something that convinced 
her anew of the grandeur of Nature, the insignificance 
of mankind. 


Though the Duse made a great deal of money during 
her career, she was never rich. When she worked the 
receipts were fabulous, but she worked relatively little. 
From 1907 the doctors absolutely forbade her to 
play two evenings in succession; and in fact were 
continually urging her to retire. 

For many, many years she had suffered from serious 
heart trouble, complicated by weak lungs, which 
made acting doubly difficult... . But she was a 
child of the theatre, and while it was possible to go 
on she refused to listen to the counsel of the doctors : 
the famous Augosto Murri, and Pietro Grocco, the 
most celebrated physicians in Italy. 

The tormented heart was undergoing a subtle 
change. Great waves of kindness were pouring in, 
gradually washing away the passion and jealousy of 
youth. .. . The passing of the torrential love had 
caused the most devastating hours of her life. From 


~~ . x 
ae “ r 
7. !. « —— ~ oa ae» 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 1099 


the devastation she arose a creature all sweetness 
and comprehension. 

“Only think of it,’ she said to a friend while 
walking at sunset in the little garden of the Via Della 
Robbia home. “I had to receive and his impos- 
sible wife. Filthy couple! They talked badly of 
everybody !—of those I love; of those who are 
worthy ; of others who are good, or nearly good, and 
are perhaps of the most worth. When they had gone 
I took a bath. Butit did no good. .. . I feel now as 
though I should like to take my heart out and throw 
it into a washtub. Can you believe me, they even 
had something mean to say of Boito, the purest, 
most forgiving soul that ever lived: the soul that God 
has certainly already pardoned for the little harm 
ime ne Has ever done. ... Boito ... Boito, He 
will be glorious, after death. His spirit is lke the 
rainbow.’ She trembled violently, paused in her walk, 
tears unheeded running down her cheeks. “‘ Let he 
that is without sin cast the first stone,’ ’’ she whispered. 
“Tf the text were followed,’ she added, “‘ no stones 
would be flying about.” 

She never raised her voice in unkind criticism, 
yet the world continued to talk of her with curiosity, 
prying into her private life—insisting upon knowing 
whom she loved, unable to believe that she had nobly 
left material love behind her and with head erect 
was marching on, facing solitude and old age with 
the same courage that at fourteen she had faced the 
unpromising future... . 





Accounts roughly made up by one of her business 
managers show that the Duse had made, by her trium- 
phal tours in England, Europe, Egypt and the two 
Americas, without including Italy in the calculation, 
several millions of lire... . But she spent all—or 
nearly all of it. Not on herself. She had never been 


are 





200 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


vain or superb in her solitary closed life, never prodigal. 
She had never had a truly luxurious home—many 
servants, or horses and carriages, as any other actress 
would have had. But for the theatre she spent hun- 
dreds of thousands of lire, often needlessly and especi- 
ally during the d’Annunzio period. . . - Other hundreds 
of thousands of lire undoubtedly went to pay her actors 
for the time that they were engaged without working, 
_ while she was occupied, perhaps for weeks, and even 
months, resting, studying, and occasionally rehearsing. 

She was always a scrupulous and generous star, 
even at the cost of great personal sacrifice. Her actors 
were paid every week, whether they worked or not. 
And never, even with the excuse of illness, did she 
break a contract... . 

It has been, and is still, said that d’Annunzio’s 
extravagance was the cause of Eleonora Duse’s ruin, 
and that his reckless spending of her hard-earned money 
was what eventually brought about their separation. 
. . . [his vulgar statement must certainly have come 
from his enemies, for d’Annunzio did not spend the 
Duse’s money. From a friend who acted as his 
secretary at that time I have the declaration of this 
fact: his considerable royalties amounted at this 
time toasmall fortune. He never bought her jewellery 
or made presents of value, but what he spent for the 
beautifying of the Porziuncola would have been suffi- 
cient to live on fora year. Frequently he also helped her 
to meet the expenses of a broken contract. 

For example, she was in Vienna, where he was to 
join her for a trip to Russia. The company was already 
at Moscow awaiting her. After receiving a telegram 
from d’Annunzio announcing his inability to meet her, 
she telegraphed to her manager in Russia that she would 
not fulfil her contract ; and the same day left for Italy. 
. . . Lhat caprice alone cost the small sum of fifty 
thousand lire. 


ti 
77. 





ELEONORA DUSE AT 45. 


p. 200. 








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—" 
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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 201 


In September and October, 1908, with a limited 
Ibsen-d’Annunzio repertoire, she toured, with more 
than usual triumph, Russia, Germany, Austria, and 
Belgium. Of Ibsenshe gave “ The Lady from the Sea”’ 
and “ Ghosts.” Of d’Annunzio, ‘‘ La Gioconda,” which 
she played more magnificently than ever. .. . The 
tragic suffering feminine characters created by the great 
Norwegian playwright appealed strongly to her at that 
time, especially ‘‘ Ghosts,’”’ as being more suited to 
her age. 

It seems that when the Duse first began giving 
the work of Ibsen the Norwegians considered her far 
superior to Sarah Bernhardt, in that her women were 
Northern women while the Bernhardt’s creation of 
the same women retained something of the Latin 
temperament. : 

Tired and ill, from November she rested officially for 
three months. Her health seemed seriously menaced, 
and those who knew her feared she would never play 
again. 

Rest ? How could Eleonora Duse rest ? She who 
was born in a train, and for fifty-two years had travelled 
continually ; even though the frail tired body begged 
incessantly for repose, the virile soul refused it. 

She spent a few weeks at the Porziuncola, where 
memories haunted her by day and by night; peace 
was not to be found there. In desperation she des- 
cended to Florence, to the apartment of Via Della 
Robbia. There it was too lonely. It was not the 
season for Venice, and Rome did not appeal to her 
then. Paris... there was always the hope of oblivion 
there, and many friends to welcome her, if she wanted 
them. 

A few weeks only were spent in the turbulent city, 
then a precipitated return toItaly. Seeking .. . she 
was ever seeking peace of mind, afraid to rest lest the 
rest prove eternal. 


i “OU ees 
pe 


202 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The indomitable spirit ever forcing her on, in 
February, 1909, she accepted a short engagement at 
Vienna, where, in ‘‘ La Locandiera,’” she gave the 
supposed last performance. 


Ill, incapable of further resistance, keeping up’ 


entirely on her nerves, she abandoned the stage without 
clamorous farewells, without banquets, without apo- 
theois ; timid, austere, and, as always, solitary. 

No one in the vast audience or on the stage knew 
the ache in her heart as she played the joyous Miran- 
dolina, knew that she was bidding farewell to the 
public ; taking what she believed to be her last curtain 
call. . . . No one had an idea of the tears back of the 
radiant smile, or the physical force used to keep the 
pure voice steady. 

The final curtain fell on a delirious applause that 
continued over fifteen minutes; while huge bunches 
of violets tied with the Italian colours rained from 
every part of the house and stage, falling at her feet 
until she was literally buried under them. Again and 
again they called for her and still more flowers came. 
... The enthusiastic homage, bitter rather than 
sweet that night, was more than she could bear. .. . 
With a sob she turned her tear-stained face once 
more to the public, extending her hands in an infinitely 
sad farewell gesture, then gathering up all the flowers 
that her arms could hold, with a backward glance 
and unforgettable smile she left the stage, the echo 
of the applause following her to her dressing- 
room. 

At the height of her glory, owing to the condition of 
her health as well as the lack of plays adapted to her 


age, before the first warning of decadence came, she 


retired. 

She was the greatest actress of the world. She was 
even more than that, for in her eyes there was something 
that no critic in any country had ever elucidated: the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 203 


mediumistic quality—which explains why she was 
grander than all who had come before her or any who can 
come after. . . . She had been on the stage over forty 
years. . . Glory such as comes to few had been hers. 

As she left the theatre that night a sadness, more 
profound than all the sadness of her life put together, 
weighed upon her. . . . The habit of forty years had 
become a thing of the past, without hope of a 
mature... 

Alone in her hotel she lay wide-eyed all through 
the night, the violets perfuming the air about her, 
the applause still ringing in her ears. . . . Before her 
there was the emptiness of eternal rest, back of her 
the closed book... . 

The following day, just before leaving for Italy, calm 
as though she were starting on a usual trip, she called 
the company together to announce her intention of 
retiring from the stage until such time as she could find 
plays adapted to her age and mature temperament. 

She made no mention of her illness, and with more 
than usual cordiality she saluted her companions, as 
she always called the members of her company. 

“ Ragazzi,” the soft voice trembled, “‘ I’m sorry 


to have to tell you all . . . that for the time being I 
shall not be able to keep you with me. Because— 
because . . .”—it was difficult even for her to admit— 


“T’m old, and there are no plays for old women... . 
So I’m going to do a retiring act, that’s all!” 

A devoted little actress with wide black eyes 
looked seriously at the Duse, and with fear and 
trembling said : 

“ D’Annunzio, signora, could write a play for you.”’ 

With a profoundly kind limpid glance the Duse 
studied the little actress, who in fear at her own daring 
was blushing furiously. Then, with a sweet gay smile 
full of charm and fascination, the soft nervous voice 
replied : 



















‘No, no, per me quello che é rosso é rosso ; 
si torna sopra (for me what is red is red ; I do not tur 
back). Qualcun’ ave forse puo scrivere ancora per 
toa Maes. NOL” Rice cay else perhaps ¢ can 
write for me . pitt he, no !) nh Bee 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 205 | 


PARK «LL 


The Simple Life—Various Performances—The War—Financial 
Losses—Thought of Returning to the Stage—Plans—The 
Return—Touring in Italy—Decision to go to England—Vienna 
—United States. 


SAD and lonely, Eleonora Duse left Vienna for Florence, 
where in the lovely apartment of the Via Della Robbia 
she passed the first months of rest. 

The days seemed long, without any special interest. 
It was not that the reposing bothered her, for to a 
certain extent she was used to that—1it was the idea 
of never working again that haunted her waking hours 
and troubled her sleep. 

In the Florence home she had arranged her library 
composed of hundreds and hundreds of rare books— 
works of old masters as well as the recent publica- 
tions in French and Italian, with not a few of the most 
noted translations. Her chief pleasure then and later 
was rigorously to follow the trend of contemporary 
literature. 

No longer having the responsibility of a company, 
or anything particular to do, she passed her days in 
solitary study; forgetting for the time being the 
unhappiness and acute suffering the farewell had 
caused her. 

For months before arriving at the fatal decision 
she had been so intensely nervous that she had been 
obliged to forbid anyone to be on the stage behind the 
scene, before, or during a performance. 

Preoccupied by the insoluble problem as to how 
to fill the void that leaving the stage presented, crying 





206 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in secret over the cruelty of life, she was continually 
agitated ; nervous spasms followed any sudden irrita- 
tion, to be followed in turn by spontaneous humiliation 
and repentance—the forerunner of the religious aurora. 

Ferruccio Benini, the kindest of all kind old actors, 
who no doubt had never heard of psychic influences, 
serene in his rights of an old stager, went to greet an 
actor of the Duse Company. 

It was a few minutes before the ‘“‘ curtain.”” Walk- 
ing calmly across the stage he encountered the “ Sig- 
nora’’ about to inspect the scene before giving the 
signal for the curtain. 


Noticing a man in her way the Duse broke forth 


angrily : 

“Who has dared to come here to disturb me during 
the hour of my work?” 

The famous actor of the Venetian Theatre, startled, 
turned quickly. 

Too irate to recognise him, the Duse yelled angrily : 

“Who are you ? ”’ 

“Miz son Benint, poareto! Che la me scusa”’ 
(I am Benini—I beg your pardon), he replied sweetly 
in dialect. 

A sudden shame overspread the Duse when she 
heard the name of a man long beloved, and without 
a word she went quickly to her dressing-room; closing 
the door softly. In a moment she opened it, ran 


across the stage, reached Benini, who was about to 


go away, and with a quick passionate gesture offered 
him both her hands, murmuring brokenly : 

“ Forgive me.” 

No other word was said, but Benini went away softly, 
an unpleasant lump in his throat. 

And the Duse, still trembling from emotion, sad- 
dened by her involuntary unkindness, had to be asked 
three times in succession if the curtain could go up 
before she was able to reply. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 207 


It was not because she craved Riser but merely 
that life without it was suddenly very empty: for 
Eleonora Duse féted and petted, numbered among 
the world’s great theatricalstars, was one thing, while 
Eleonora Duse retired from the public view was quite 
another ; and many of the so-called friends who had 
been proud to know her, and to be seen in her company, 
gradually, even with certain discretion, began dropping 
out of sight. 

Her daughter was married and living in England, 
and apart from a few cousins with whom she had never 
been in close rapport the Duse was absolutely alone 
in the world. 

She was ill. From her point of view she was old, 
and the world unfortunately only had time for youth : 
therefore there was no place for her. ... And 
Wercs 

From that question a marvellously pure soul came 
to life in the frail faded body. . . . In the little home 
in Florence, surrounded by the great written thoughts 
of hundreds of men and women from all parts of the 
world, light came to her who perhaps before had 
walked in darkness. . . . The way of the Cross lay 
before her—it had always been before her, but now 
it was different... . And in that radiant light the 
‘ Consolatrice ’’ (“‘Comforter”’), as she was known in 
Italy, was born. 


Four months after the disbanding of the Eleonora 
Duse Company the little unknown actress of the late 
company became Signora Enif Robert, wife of one 
of the ex-leading men. 

The very day the announcement of the marriage 
was received the “dear companion” wrote to the 
little actress, who had always been a favourite with 
her. The sincerity of her joy over the new-found 
happiness is plainly shown in the letter : 


208 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“T am so glad for you, dear Miss—dear 
Madam. | 

“The strength from work and the kindness of 
life will come to you united and friendly in the strong 
prop that Fate has now given you. 

“T send you every good wish, happy that you have 
found one who knew how to read what there is of good 
and sweetness in your heart. 

“ELEONORA DUSE.”’ 


And only a few days later she wrote again, inviting 
the newly-wedded couple to call. 

In one of the soft clinging white robes that she 
almost always wore then, she received them in the 
little rose-filled drawing-room that opened on to the 
garden. 

She was gay, delicious ; interested in all they had 
to tell her; laughing with them over the difficulties 
that their new life presented . . . kind, helping them 
to make plans for the future. Never for a second did 
-She show any bitterness over her ill-health... . 
Everything about her was harmonious, fresh and pure 
as the noble brow from which the rebellious white- 
streaked hair fell back softly. 

The doctors had advised rest, but there seemed to 
be unlimited vitality in the sight harmonious person 
and the vivid eyes. ... Her hand-clasp was firm, 
and in the gentle caress and soft kiss that she gave 
Enif Robert on parting there was tenderest, almost 
timid, affection. | 

She had spoken of a project for a trip to California 
in September, and in the event of its materialising she 
promised to have the Roberts accompany her. 

The next day she sent the happy bride a wedding 
present of three magnificent Worth frocks, one of 
silver cloth trimmed with hundreds of rhinestones 
which is still in Madame Robert’s possession. . 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 209 


Overcome by the marvellous creations, Madame Robert 
went at once to offer her thanks. 

“Oh, signora!’”’ she exclaimed as soon as the 
Duse received her. ‘‘ The frocks are beautiful, won- 
derful, but 45 

“ Worth,” the Duse interrupted, ‘‘ my grand Worth, 
the man who knows more about dressing a woman to 
perfection than any other person in the world, made 
them all.” 

“TI know, and that’s just it: they are too mar- 
vellous for me!” 

“My dear child, nothing is ever too marvellous 
for any woman who is young.” The fascinating little 
laugh trembled on her lips, then seeing the sadness in 
the younger woman’s eyes, she added gaily: ‘‘ Wear 
them and be happy, and remember sometimes that 
Eleonora Duse wore them once before you did.” 

Therein lay their value: not that they were 
Worth creations but because Eleonora Duse had worn 
them. 





In September the project of a tour in California fell 
through. The Duse was under a doctor’s care for 
nervous complications as well as pulmonary disorder 
which for years had been troubling her. 

Her unnatural birth, unsettled life, had favoured 
the hereditary trouble. Florence was not climatically 
suited to her condition ; so in the early autumn she 
was ordered to the Riviera for the winter. . . . The 
apartment on the aristocratic, tranquil Via Della 
Robbia she still kept as her real home, returning there 
from time to time for several years after. 

The Italian and French Rivieras, Paris, London, 
Rome, the Adriatic coast, the mountains, Switzer- 
land and Austria, all were visited, yet only for 
short periods; for even when not forced to travel 
she- was unable to remain quietly in any one place 

O 





210 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


for a long time. Seeking, hoping somewhere, some 
time, to find peace, she was continually on the move. 
In 1911 the desire to emerge once more from the 
solitude was upon her. At Ravenna, the wanderer, 
disgusted with the emptiness of life without work, 
bitter because of her inability to do as the heart dic- 
tated, was at the theatre alone, sitting far back in 
a box hoping that no one would notice her. . . . The 
old fascination of the theatre took possession of her, 


and without realising what she was doing she leaned 


forward from the box the better tocontemplate theimage 
of her great love—‘‘a theatre—the theatre.”” Someone 
recognised her, and of a sudden the audience as one 
person turned towards the pale passionate face and 
unanimously shouted: ‘‘ Viva Eleonora Duse ! ” 

Electrified by this unexpected demonstration, as 
soon after the performance as possible she telegraphed 
to a manager at Bologna : 

‘“T want to go to work. Get a company together 
immediately.”’ 

The company was organised, rehearsed, and booked. 
“The Lady from the Sea” and ‘Gian Gabriele 
Borkmann ”’ were the only plays given. . . . However, 
with all her energy and intense desire to be in the 
limelight, she was only able to give a few performances. 


The venture was a losing one for the manage- 


ment, and the company was disbanded. 

Her farewell to the stage seemed this time to be 
definite. She herself was convinced that she would 
never play again; but the restless spirit was not yet 
able to free itself from the marvellous torment. . . . 
She resisted decisively, disdainfully, the offers that 
continued to pour in from managers all over the world. 
. . . Before such offers, before the commercial bar- 
gaining, her very soul rebelled enclosing her in a con- 
templative lethargy where only a luminous spark was 
able to bring the artistic flame to life again. 


Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 211 


Several years of illness, of obscure suffering, useless 
fugitiveness, when, in the search for something new, 
different, she was making friends with strange people 
from almost every walk of life. ... One woman 
attached herself so securely that the poor Duse was 
obliged to call in the help of the law in order to free 
“herself from the companionship of the objectionable 
young person. 

Another close friendship of fairly short duration 
was that with Isadora Duncan. They met one 
evening at the theatre in Paris: two women equally 
great in their own way—what more natural than the 
existence of an immediate sympathy between them ? 
. . . From time to time they met for their mutual 
pleasure, and, in 1913, some months after the tragic 
death of Isadora Duncan’s two children (it will be 
remembered that they were drowned by a bridge break- 
ing near Paris while their automobile was crossing it), 
they spent several weeks together at Viareggio, a 
seaside resort in Italy. 

Isadora Duncan had been in Venice seeking con- 
solation, which it seems she did not find. The Duse 
was at Viareggio. A series of telegraphic letters 
passed between the two famous women, each asking 
the other to join her. At length the Duse prevailed, 
and Isadora Duncan went to Viareggio. 

The still glorious dancer was charmed with the 
delightful place and decided to remain for a long peace- 
ful sojourn. Being constantly in the public eye in an 
hotel, she felt the desire for a private home. 

The Duse, who knew Viareggio well, agreed to find 
her a suitable palazzino (small house). In a few days 
she had discovered what she believed to be perfect for 
the disconsolate Isadora. The arrangements were 
accordingly made and Isadora taken to see her palazzino. 

The location was ideal, and it was neither too 
large nor too small. The Duse was enthusiastic over 


212 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


it, the Duncan a little less so as she went curiously 
through the various rooms. 

‘“T thought you told me, Eleonora, that it was 
ready to livein ?’”’ They were in the so-called drawing- 
room. 

“ It is,” the Duse replied promptly. 

“Ah! Well, where’s the furniture ? ” 

A few half-broken chairs and tables were standing 
listlessly, dejectedly about as though they had given up 
all hope of ever being noticed again. 

“There is plenty,’ the Duse hastened to reassure 
her, “‘ for when you look at the mural decorations you 
don’t need anything more! ”’ 

“H’'m!”’ Isadora was not entirely convinced. “I 
can’t sit on the walls!” 

“The divan is very comfortable”’; the Duse indi- 
cated a shaky affair propped up against the far wall. 
‘You can lie there and contemplate the paintings.” 

“Paintings? H’m! And if I don’t always want 
to lie down, even supposing that that thing will hold 
me ? a3 


“ Then you will go out and walk. . . . In any case 
one must learn to adapt oneself to furnished houses ; 
they are sure to lack something. . . . But, dear, you 


will be most comfortable here.’’ 

And Isadora Duncan rented the palazzino, which 
for some years before had been occupied by a mad 
German prince, who had amused himself by breaking 
the furniture and making atrocious charcoal drawings 
all over the calcimine walls. 

Isadora Duncan regaled the Duse with the tragic 
story of her life, and the Duse in turn did all in her 
power to comfort the woman who seemed unable to 
forget for a minute the loss of her two children, beautiful 
and intelligent. . . . And many, who did not know the 
comfort she was to the suffering Isadora, criticised 
her for her intimacy with the famous dancer. 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 213 


Still grieving over her irreparable loss, Isadora 
Duncan returned to Paris, and Eleonora Duse went 
to Florence. 


One evening at the Politeama Nazionale Theatre, 
Florence, the Duse attended a performance of the 
Company Talli-Gramatica-Calabresi, the most perfect 
combination of dramatic actors that the past twenty 
years had seen. 

The play was Gorki’s “The Poor House,” the 
acting magnificent, and it was one of the greatest suc- 
cesses Virgilio Talli ever had as a manager. .. . For 
the illustrious actress to praise the valorous companions 
seemed too little; she felt that she could, that she 
must, do something more... . That something was 
the interrupting of her rest to radiate the great light 
of her art among her fellow artists. She wanted to 
be with them, one of them; and so for a charity 
performance at Florence she played “ Fernandes ia 
Later at the Manzoni Theatre, Milan, she played the 
part of Vasilissa in “‘ The Poor House” with Virgilio 
Talli, Irma Gramatica, Lyda Borelli, Ruggero Ruggeri, 
Oreste Calabresi, and Alberto Bionanni, all of whom 
are now the big actors of Italy—and Ruggero Ruggeri 
is to-day practically the Zacconi of other days. 

From the moment of her appearance on the stage 
of the Manzoni, the audience, the greater part of 
which had never heard the Duse, had the impression 
of finding themselves before a superior kind of person— 
one of the elect. Her fascination had an immediate 
and sincere effect. Her voice for many, as I have 
said, was unknown, and seemed not to be directed to 
the crowd, but to each individual heart, carrying a 
message of goodness and sweetness to it. 

The ice broken by that memorable evening, the 
Duse again formed her own company, with which she 
made a rapid tour of Italy. ... At the Manzoni 


214 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


and Lirico Theatres, Milan, she gave Ibsen’s “‘ Rosmer- 
solm,’’ and Goldoni’s ‘‘ La Locandiera.”’ 


Silence again. . . . More roaming about Europe, 
seeing here and there old friends, making new ones ; 
interesting herself in all artistic and social problems ; 
Her original and decided opinion on all matters much 
sought after. 

She considered that a fundamental change was 
necessary in the education of Italian men and women. 
“The fable of love is too ardently believed in, has 
too important a part to play in the daily life... . 
Love is a habit, and every word and gesture depends 
upon it. It is not the warm Southern temperament, 
as Italians like to believe, that is responsible for 
the rapport between the two sexes, but a mistaken 
education. 

“And so the pariah love,” as she called it, “ has 
been created, the love of derelicts and rebels who have 
never learned to conquer self. And for the same reason 
there are, and always will be, disillusions in love, for 
misguided men and women have only been able to 
find a poor and ephemeral satisfaction, neither of them 
dreaming that apart from this sentiment there is given 
to them the possibility of creating a new faith, a new 
joy that is nothing more than a higher form of love.”’ 

Speaking of the women of the Latin races, especially 
the Italians, Eleonora Duse said: 

“The home as a nest, a refuge, a sanctuary does 
not exist with us. Our sky consents, even demands, 
that our life be passed almost entirely in the open 
air... . Certainly if we knew how to enlarge 
the grandeur of this space it would be without confine ; 
but unfortunately we narrow our horizon until life 
has been enclosed within the pettiness of self-constructed 
walls... . We have very little beauty, very little 
intimacy, and even less friendship in our homes ; 


’ 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 215 


even little religion in the highest and largest sense 
of the word. . . . The fault is not the man’s. 

“Our religion, the meditation of eternal things, is © 
understood only from a Catholic point of view; a 
religion of ceremony, of exaltation, of glory. In order 
to pray it is necessary to go into a church, one of our 


magnificent churches. . . . And the works of charity 
are reserved for those special few who are able to 
attend to them. ... It is a rare thing to find a 


woman who can, and still rarer one who knows how 
to, look after charity. 

“So with us it is not easy for a woman to find a 
field for her activity, where femininity can triumph ; 
and without triumphs she cannot live, for no one 
can go through life without dreams, without joy; and 
the time of resignation to solitude and renunciation 
has not yet come—-so naturally a modern woman, 
if she is mediocre and beautiful, plunges herself into 
sin; if she is merely pretty, she becomes embittered 
against herself and others ; transforming into a bigot if 
she is mystic ; reclaiming rights, laws, suffrage if she 
is a meddler and reasoner. 

“Women of other races who have had a broader 
education, who from childhood have been taught the 
beauty of honest love, who have grown up used to free 
intercourse with the opposite sex, are much less subject 
to disillusion, and make far more generous, lenient 
wives, and best of all, they learn early the meaning 
and value of friendship, a thing that rarely, if ever, exists 
between a man and woman of the Latin race... 
Our women are insulted if a man doesn’t speak of love 
immediately ; while the Anglo-Saxon woman, so I 
believe, is insulted if he does. ... We have never 
learned the secret of self-control, and until we do our 
women might as well be contented as they are, and 
not try to extol their virtues under the title of 
“femministe.’”’ 


216 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Of all the Italian actresses who had the fortune to 
be at any time of their career with Eleonora Duse 
the one most favoured by the grand tragedienne was 
Emma Gramatica, to-day the ablest, if not the greatest, 
actress in Italy—-though by many Maria Melata is 
considered as the most promising tragedienne, and, 
in fact, was well spoken of by the Duse. 

The technique of her art, the careful stage direction, 
even the indomitable will to work, Emma Gramatica 
owes to the years spent in the Duse Company, where 
the interest and love of the elder woman for the 
“little blonde of the great serious blue eyes,’ was her 
incentive and comfort. 

It seems that many years ago another promising 
young actress was very intimate with the Gramatica, 
to some extent a rival, and also favoured by the 
Duse. 

Emma Gramatica, who was in the habit of confiding 
all her worries, as well as her joys, in the Duse, asking 
advice on any serious questions, for some time had 
been distant ; and when forced to be near the great 
tragedienne averted her eyes. 

The Duse, quick to see a change in anyone she loved, 
had been watching “la piccola,’’ as she called the 
Gramatica, for several days. 

“Something is wrong with Emma,” the Duse 
announced to an actor during a pause at a rehearsal. 
“Do you know what is troubling her ? ” 

The man had no idea; so the Duse, seeing that 
the girl was really trying to avoid her, sent word that 
she was to come to her dressing-room. 

They talked about the weather, the new play that 
they were reading for the first time; then, putting 
her hand under the Gramatica’s chin, she tenderly 
raised the pale little face. 

“What is troubling my little one?” she asked 
sweetly. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 217 


“ Nothing.”” Emma lowered her glance instantly. 

“ That’s not true, for, in the rare moments that I 
catch your glance, your big beautiful eyes are full of 
tears. Are you in love, and afraid to tell Eleonora ? ”’ 

Without looking up Emma shook her head. 
~ “Has someone offended you? If so, tell me, and 
V’ll make it all right at once.” 

“No! no!” With a low cry Emma dropped to 
her knees, and, putting her arms passionately about 
the Duse, said brokenly through repressed sobs : 

“I—I love you so, and she—she says that I must 
pray for you to die, because while you live—we can 
never be anything! ”’ 

Silently the Duse stroked the golden head before 
her, her face drawn in severe lines. 

“ And you,”’ at length she spoke softly, “‘ have you 
been—praying ?’ 

“Ah, no!no!’” For the first time in many weeks 
the blue eyes looked fearlessly into the mystic brown 
ones. ‘“‘I want to make my way in the world, to be 
famous ; but never if your life depends upon it!” 

“ Thank you, dear,”’ the Duse kissed the tear-stained 
face. ‘‘ You should have told me at once, instead of 
eating your heart out needlessly.’”’ For a moment 
she seemed to be looking into space, then bringing 
her glance back to the anxious face before her she 
said: “I will probably see you both famous ; but your | 
fame will live after I am gone, while hers will die 
before Ido. . . . Now get back to your part, and ’— 
she laughed mischievously—‘ don’t bother to tell her 
that you are not—praying.”’ 


After living for brief periods in hotel apartments 
the Duse discovered a small flat on the top floor of 
a modest house on the Via Rupe Tarpea, Rome. 

The house, No. 61, was noted for one thing only: 
a marvellous view of the ruins of the Foro Romano, 





218 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the Villa Borghese, Villa Corsini, and on to the splendid 
horizon. 

With a joyous enthusiasm for the superb panorama, 
the Duse began the transformation of the simple place. 
Decorators were put to work, and in a remarkably 
short time the modest unattractive interior had become 
a delightfully cosy home. 

She was past mistress in the art of transforming 
a house in which she had the intention of living. . . . 
The owner of the Porziuncola is now in possession of 
a carved staircase of the Florentine style designed from 
her imagination, which goes from the entrance hall 
to the second floor of the villa. 

Not more than two weeks after the Duse was 
installed in the new apartment of Via Rupe Tarpea, 
sitting one evening on the balcony watching the last 
rays of the sunset fading from the glorious Roman 
sky, she became aware of screams coming from the 
street below, on the far side of the house. Rushing 
to the window, she peered anxiously out, then in horror 
fled to her balcony again. 

A woman had thrown herself head first from a 
window of the house opposite. One glance at the 
mangled body had been more than her sensitive nature 
could bear, and that same evening she left Rome. . . . 
The few things that she really needed were sent to 
Florence, and eventually all the furniture and fittings 
of the apartment given to the owner of the house. 

She never returned to No. 61, Via Rupe Tarpea. 

Happy indeed were the many proprietors who had 
Eleonora Duse for a tenant ! 

She kept up these numerous temporary residences, 
where she stayed for only a few days at a time, urged 
as she always was by the fever to go somewhere else, 
to be on the move, to consume the magnificent 
inexhaustible energy that even illness ae not 
weaken. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 219 


Though the actress remained quiet and silent, the 
woman was unable to. The actress was eventually 
to be forgotten—that was the inevitable law of life— 
but the woman could not forget those who were still 
struggling and meeting with less success than she had 
had. 


Dramatic art in Italy boasts of a Cassa di Previ- 
denza (Fund for Poor Actors), which was started by the 
great Tommaso Salvini. Eleonora Duse wanted to 
found a Casa di Riposo (a Rest Home) for the actresses 
who could not afford a serene comfortable place to 
pass a month’s rest. 

Her kind altruistic desire met with cold indifference, 
even severe criticism; and Emma Gramatica went 
so far as to have a letter published in a leading 
daily paper, part of which follows: 


“ For whom would this house generously offered by 
Eleonora Duse serve? Certainly not for those who 
have triumphed, for if they have the desire and time 
they can procure for themselves all the beautiful things 
offered. Nor is it useful for the unfortunate, the far 
away, or those who are lost in the fight against hunger. 
. . . Some little snob of the stage might dare to enter 
the kingdom of writers, the hitherto exile of 
Mewesses, 0" 


Other papers took up the question, other actresses 
voiced their opinions for and against it, and the Duse’s 
beautiful idea of ‘a flower and a book”’ offered by 
the Big Sister to the little and obscure labourers of 
the stage eventually fell through. 

Perhaps it was not practical to suggest that the 
villa which she had leased at Rome, outside the 
Porta Nomentana, far from the heart of the city, sur- 
rounded by cypress trees, filled with roses and books 
which were to be brought from Florence, and ten 





220 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


thousand lire, should be put at the disposition of the 
actresses passing through the capital. 

In a few words she had made public the nobility 
of her project : 

“T want to work to dissipate the shadow that 
hangs over our actors. We have marvellous energy, 
frequently unknown because the means of coming 
in contact with conventional life outside the theatre 
are lacking. . . . The vagabondage, the poor organisa- 
tion, the disbanding of force are pitiable things to see. 
It is necessary for our artists to get out of the circle 


in which they are confined, and to enter into more ~ 


complete and vaster surroundings of a modern 
intellectual life.”’ 

Continuing she gave the particulars of her plans 
for the betterment morally and physically of her 
companions in art: 

“The workmen have their ‘Home.’ Why, then, 
should our travelling actresses, whose poor pay forces 
them to live in humble, often unpleasant, quarters, 
not have theirs also? Why should they not have the 
honour and pleasure of resting in a nice house filled — 
with books, fresh air and sunshine, where at least 
they can have the comfort of a less tormented and 
worthier life ? ” 

Her offer was considered an ideal gift, but 
scarcely worth the money it would cost to maintain 
it. If she had thought of founding a home where 
those who had been ill could pass a month of convales- 
cence . . . But what good was a flower or a book to 
those who were fighting against hunger ? 

Apart from the unpractical side of the idea, could 
anything have been more exquisitely spiritual, or have 
shown a more beautiful desire to bring light to those 
in darkness ? Unfortunately for the world of actors, 
those who plod along, the mere supers, the darkness 
has become a habit, and like miners they probably 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 221 


have very little desire for the light. . . . In acting, as 
in every walk of life, hundreds fail where only one 
succeeds. . . . And for the hundreds Eleonora Duse 
conceived her idea ; but those very hundreds considered 
it extravagant as her ideas always had been. 

- The Duse, knowing only too well the comfort 
that good reading and the sight of a beautiful flower 
could bring to the feminine soul, offered this exquisite 
consolation to her less fortunate sisters—but as ever 
she was misunderstood... . 

Another dream! Yes, and she had had so many, 
each one more beautiful than the other, and each 
ended as the one before it: in nothingness, forgotten 
by the world—treasured by her. 

During the fervid d’Annunzio days Eleonora Duse 
had dreamed of the marvellous project of the Teatro 
d’ Albano. 

Count Frankestein had offered the land where the 
theatre should have been built, at the southern gate 
of Rome, on the magnificent bank of Lake Albano, 
near the baths of Diana. 

The greatest Roman ladies took up the propaganda 
with true Italian enthusiasm for a time, with gratifying 
success. Gabriele d’Annunzio was to be the counsellor 
for the theatre, and Eleonora Duse the artistic:manager. 

But even this dream, the realisation of which 
would have brought inestimable benefits of culture 
and ideas to the Italian public, was destined to die 
almost at conception. 

Afterwards, the Duse rarely spoke of this project, 
which, jike others, adversity had prevented her, from 
realizing. . . . But she suffered severely and at length 
over it. Her solitude would have been of shorter 
duration and less painful if the intelligent words from 
her heart could have produced the effect she had 
imagined. 

Another dream was the “ Actors’ Library,” which 





222 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


was, however, only to be met with indifference from 
the world, and eventually abandoned. 

The honorary committee was to be composed of 
leading actors and actresses. With noble respectful 
expressions of regret Emma Gramatica, the actress 
who to-day in Italy stands more than all the others 
for courage and will, dared to say to the Grand Teacher 
of her own art: 

‘Too long you have lived far from us, a stranger 
to us; you have lost your sense and even knowledge 
of what your life was. Your project is a chimera.” 

And Emma Gramatica’s opinion was that of all 
the others, though few of them had the courage to 
openly voice their sentiments. 

Despite the contrary influence, the Library, on May 
27th, 1914, had a brilliant inauguration. The stars, 
great and small, of the theatrical and literary world 
were all there. Tea was served and speeches made, 
and the Duse, happy in the belief that at last one of 
her dreams had come true, radiated charm and con- 
tentment on all who were gathered there. 


The inauguration was brilliant, then the inevitable — 


happened: the “ arrived”’ had what they desired to 
read and study at home. The others had different 
and more difficult problems to solve, and in their life 
of hard work and struggle they had no time to 
seek the spiritual oasis which the “Great One” 
had dreamed of for them at 14, Via Pietralata, Rome. 

She was ever striving to do something new, some- 
thing to help: fighting against enormous odds; but 
it was not always the fault of others if she did not 
succeed. She was continually vacillating, one minute 
it was “ yes,” and the next “no’’; tiring those who 
did not understand the elevated restlessness and per- 
plexity in the creature of the complicated soul who 
felt only the necessity to rise to the summit of human 
comprehension and learning. 


a en - 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 223 


Yvette Guilbert, the delicious French actress, the 
sincere admirer and tender friend of the Duse, the 
woman who, like the grand tragedienne, saw only the 
way of improvement, the woman who sang vulgar 
French songs with infinite refinement, and later 
became the famous interpreter of ‘‘ Vielles Chansons 
de France,’ was in Florence in 1914, with her gay wit 
helping to lift the veil of sadness that seemed little 
by little to be enveloping the Duse. 

“ Why is Eleonora always so sad ? ”’ she asked one 
day. “She who has the possibility of radiating joy 
should always be happy.” 

When the question was repeated to the Duse she 
smiled strangely, hesitated, then said : 

“Tam afraid—and I don’t know of what.” 

The kind Guilbert to reassure her friend replied : 

“She is right, quite right. Jl faut se préperer!”’ 

And only a few weeks later war was declared, the 
world’s via crucis begun. 


Inscrutable, the way of the Almighty! God in 
His infinite wisdom called her to the applause of 
another theatre: the War. ... Few of the elect 
felt the world’s painful tragedy as Eleonora Duse 
did. 

Tormented for years by asthma that had made the 
daily use of oxygen necessary, she was oppressed all 
those years of fighting by the cruellest suffering, and 
sustained only by her ardent love for the Patria. 

And how many souls of those fighters were 
exquisitely consoled by her ? 

As soon as possible after Italy entered the great 
fight she transferred her residence to Udine, the city 
nearest the Front, where she remained almost continu- 
ally until the terrible retreat of 1917 drove her, with 
many others, to the safety of a more protected city. 

Still suffering and fearful, the wanderer, on a stage 


224 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


that knew no boundary, consecrated her divine art 
to aiding the humblest of the humble soldiers. 

“In so much as ye have done it unto one of the 
least of these, my brethren .. .” 

Fire, blood, death, and visions of the Resurrection. 
All these she—found she the envied Italian woman, 
seeking peace, giving aid when and where she could, 
there in the “ zone.”’ 

She was at the bedside of the wounded, finding 
sublime words of comfort for the dying; with her 
own hands arranging for burial those who had passed 
on. 

One day in Udine, at the Venice Gate, near the 
artillery quarters, she wasseen in the crowd following 
the funeral of a young aviator. Utterly exhausted, 
she stepped out of the line and stood aside to let the 
funeral pass on. 

In the pale sad light of the late October afternoon 
she appeared ghostly, as though thick clouds were 
enveloping her, with occasional flashes of lightning : 
the scene, Golgotha. 

Passers-by hesitated before the lonely figure, a 
something apart from the war-infested surroundings— 
hesitated as to whether they should offer help. 

Did she need help then ? Did Eleonora Duse ever 
have need of help, no matter how delicate the health, 
feeble the constitution, or alarming the condition ? 
No, her mission in life was to give—never to receive. 

An officer who had recognised her, doubtfully 
approached from the quarters on the opposite side 
of the street, and unconsciously followed her 
example : 

There in the public street, she who had never 
professed any particular religion, reverently made the 
sign of the Cross. ... She had not been equal to 
the long walk to the cemetery, but she had accompanied 
the soul of the young aviator with her prayer. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 225 


Just which of the revealing lights that surrounded 
her had opened her eyes, no one ever knew; enough 
that they had become young, with a new and deeper 
comprehension than ever before. In the emaciated 
face there was the unmistakable force over men that 
God concedes only to those who hope to find their 
strength in Him. 

For many, many needy soldiers she was a material 
as well as a moral help, giving generously of the little 
money that she still had, as she did of her failing 
strength. 

Shortly after the opening of the “ Actors’ Library ” 
—to be exact, several months after the declaration 
of war between Germany and France, therefore before 
Italy entered the combat—there were rumours of the 
Duse’s financial embarrassment. The story was exag- 
gerated then, and the cause given entirely erroneous. 
... Lhe truth is that the War caused her ruin, and 
no person in particular was to blame. 

It will be remembered that before retiring from 
the stage in 1909 the Duse had invested her capital 
in an indemnity that was to have paid her 30,000 lire 
a year for the balance of her life; unfortunately it 
was with an Austrian banker. 

_ Certainly Mendelsohn was in no way to blame 
for the decrease in value of the Austrian money, which 
accordingly decreased her income, while the cost of 
living was increasing. 

Though she had made millions she had never been 
able to save, for, as she said, she always had holes in 
her pockets; and no matter how much money she 
had she would never have had enough. She was 
prodigal in providing for the material needs of her 
less fortunate companions. Her disrespect for money, 
lack of thought for the morrow, was many times 
abused by those who sought her bounty. 

The War, which reduced many great fortunes, 

P 








226 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


continued to diminish the Duse’s, until she was forced ~ 
to sell little by little her various valuable possessions. 
Theatrical costumes, which she had kept for many 
years in innumerable wardrobes built into the walls 
for that purpose in the apartment on Via Della Robbia, 
were among the first things to go. 

A short time later she sold the rarest, richest books 
from her library for 60,000 lire. And all of that sum 
was spent for the benefit of others: for comforting 
soldiers and their families. 

A soldier on leave seeing her pass mistook her for a 
member of the Red Cross, one of the women who 
encumbered the Front (in Italy), in most cases doing 
more harm than good, and in a tone of disappronaaey 
said : 

“ There’s another of those grand ladies who come 
up here out of curiosity.” 

“T have come to help and comfort you,” she 
stopped to reply humbly. “ You are going to the 
trenches ? ”’ 

“Yes.”” -He looked her full in the face. | ~ Ang 
a lot of difference it makes to you, and your kind! ” 

“ But it does make a difference to me, just as it 
must to someone at home. You havea wife?” | 

“No,” he answered sullenly. “‘ She’s dead. I got 
only my old mother and two babies.” 

“ ‘Where ? 

“In Milan.” 

“Give me the address, and I will go to see 
them.” 

“ H’m! It’s useless! They all say that, to say 
something, and then when they get back to the city 
—they forget!’’ He walked a few steps away. 

‘Tell me what you will’ ; the Duse held him more 
with her dominating glance than with her voice. “ To- 
morrow I am going to Milan.”’ 

Not yet believing her, the soldier gave the name 





‘Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 227 


and address, and without a word of thanks went on 
his way. 

It was not true that she was going to Milan the 
next day, for she was occupied every minute at Udine, 
but she kept her word, and that same evening 
left. 

The address he gave her was in a low quarter of 
the city, and the old mother she found was very 
poor. To the lonely woman caring so tenderly for the 
babies she offered words of comfort, as well as a 
modest sum of money. And the next day she was 
again at Udine. 

The soldier was to leave that evening for the 
trenches. 

_ With some difficulty she found him, and smilingly 
presented herself. . . . Incredulous, he listened to her 
story, and not until she had described the mother, 
how she was dressed, the children, the house and 
furniture, and even told him the children’s names, 
would he believe that she had not been telling him a 
piteous lie. 

With tears in his eyes he thanked her. 

She bade him farewell, and never saw or heard of 
him again. A few weeks later the retreat came and 
he was apparently among the missing. . . . And until 
the mother received her pension from the Government 
she modestly aided the little family. 


In 1917, as a means of entertaining the soldiers 
on leave, many of the leading actors who had not 
been called up volunteered their services for a theatre 
at Udine, which Eleonora Duse, with her understanding 
of the soldier’s temperament, was against. 

“A grotesque thing,’ she said, in speaking of it. 
“T had the sensation then of the blind tempest 
approaching. The soldier was irritated by the incom- 
_ prehension of the country; he looked with distrust 





228 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


upon the actors, resenting the presence of any man 
who was not in uniform and had the pretentious idea 
of coming there to entertain him. . . . Thus we actors 
have a curse upon us; living separated from life, we 
do not understand the other humanity apart from 
that which we pretend on the stage. . We act 
while other men live. And because of that there 
is no real communion between us and the public. 
Colossal ‘ gaffes’ are the result.”’ 

The “‘ Teatro al Fronte’’ was one of the greatest 
that the Italian actors have ever made. Novelli (one 
of the famous family of actors) recited a monologue 
at a performance in this theatre, where, at a certain 
point, he said these unfortunate words: “‘ When you 
return, knock hard.’’ The phrase was immediately 
taken up by the audience in a low, vulgar sense: for 
in those days a soldier home on leave had caught his 
wife in adultery, and killed her. 

At each performance there were unpleasant com- 
ments among the soldiers, who naturally formed the 
greater part of the audience. And more than once, 
before she was known, Eleonora Duse was called 
upon to explain her position there. 

Many a poor soldier never knew that the sweet voice 
that was able instantly to still his resentment was the 
voice of the woman who was to go down in history as 
the greatest actress of his century; many dying on 
narrow hospital cots had never heard of Eleonora 
Duse ; many whose sufferings had been momentarily 
alleviated by the gentle loving touch of the cool hands 
did not know that they were hands famous for their 
beauty—but every soldier who had ever come in 
contact with the “pale little signora” knew one 
thing: the greatness of her love for her country and 
those who were fighting to defend it. 

As I write, I picture her in the place where she 
has gone, surrounded by the soldiers who were lost 


ELEONORA DUSE AT 50. 








ris 





* 





* Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 229 


on the field of honour; no longer the great actress, 
but the mother that she always longed to be. 


The devastation of the War entered completely into 
the profound spirituality of the woman, and made 
even her most secret religion tremble; for she felt 
it Christianly, more as a humble sacrifice than a 
magnificent heroism. 

This new spirituality enabled her to understand 
and explain all the contrary phenomenon of those days : 
she could not limit herself to take part with either 
side, for she found the same humanity wherever she 
turned, and that each in its own way was right. 

The papers spoke little of Eleonora Duse at the 
Front, never mentioned the heroic work she was doing 
in offering her all for the Patria. ... The papers 
never mentioned the sale of her precious library, or 
the magnificent costumes of every play she had ever 
given ; nor was there ever a whisper of the many poor 
families who were aided in the hour of their need by 
her sacrifices. .. . The Press knew Eleonora Duse 
as a great actress, the theatre public in every city the 
same; what the woman was now that youth had 
passed no one knew, or cared. ... The honour of 
knowing her grand heart, of seeing into the pure 
soul, was left to the humble, who could never afford 
to pay to see her on the stage of an elegant theatre. 


When the Duse returned to acting, one evening 
after the performance a man presented himself at the 
stage entrance, and asked, as one within his rights, to 
see “La Signora.”” But with all the insistence that 
he used he was not able to have the severe rule—her 
rule—set aside. Repulsed, but not convinced, he left 
the theatre; and when half an hour later she came 
out from the stage door he was still waiting. ... When 
he saw her, with a Jow sob-like cry he came forward, 





230 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


and dropped on his knees on the cold, wet pavement 
Grabbing the saintly hands that were instantly ex- 
tended to him, he kissed them many times. . . . Her 
face as she looked at the big man was illuminated by 
a seraphic light ; the smile (an actor going out at that 
moment recounted the incident afterwards) was of 
inexplicable unearthly beauty. 

The triumph at the theatre had been wonderful, 
but the satisfaction it had given her was as nothing 
compared to what she felt in seeing one of her ex- 
soldiers again—and, unfortunately, only he heard the 
sublime words of joy that came to her in that moment. 

The man, tempered by the trenches, hardened in 
the fire and bloodshed of the terrible battles of the 
Carso, was only one of the many whom the Duse had 
subjugated by her unfailing goodness: and he would 
have laid down his life for her. 


The above is merely one incident, there are hundreds 
similar. To have an interview with Eleonora Duse 
at any stage of her career was almost an impossibility ; 
even friends were not always admitted to the august 
presence, but a soldier who had known her, or any 
member of his family, was ever welcome. She was 
never too ill to think of a gentle, encouraging word, 
nor ever so poor that she could not give something to 
help those truly in need. 


Waiting at the station at Udine for the train that 
was to take her to Florence for a short rest, seated on 
a bench, a discreet friend beside her, she was lost in 
contemplation of the tired soldiers passing to and fro. 

Of a sudden the sound of near-by applause was 
heard. Someone was in the middle of the crowd 
approaching, hidden, but revealed by the enthusiasm. 

Startled out of her reverie, almost unconsciously 
the Duse murmured : 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 231 


“ D’Annunzio.”’ 

Instantly pale she got up. Her great eyes, full of 
shadows, following the crowd. 

When all was quiet again she sat down, paler—if 
that were possible—silent as before. 


The financial embarrassment was increasing, for 
the holes were never mended in her pockets, and she 
continued to give with undiminished generosity ; 
impossible even then for her to think of her own 
future when there were so many people in need and 
want. 

The pearls, still her dearest possession, were being 
offered for sale, and when finally disposed of brought 
her about half their real value. 

At the same time as the story of the unfortunate 
sale of the pearls became known, the Morgana Film 
asked her to play the leading réle in a moving picture 
adapted from Grazia Deledda’s novel, ‘“ Cenere.”’ 

Many times she had refused to play in a silent 
drama, but that time the insistence of Marchese di 
Bugnano and Clemente Levi, animated by the thought 
of offering the great actress the means of earning a 
large sum of money and at the same time serving 
themselves by her work and glory, finally convinced her, 
and she, against her better judgment, accepted the, 
contract. 

It proved to be merely another disillusion. 

The picture was badly organised, and when finished 
was more than mediocre; and the Duse immediately 
opposed the diffusion. 

The lawyers’ fees were more than she could meet, 
so eventually things were settled outside the court, 
and the picture put in circulation with a Duse de- 
formed so completely by bad focussing that she was 
entirely devoid of the perfect attitudes that on the 


_ stage made her the most harmonious of beings. 





232 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Wandering, wandering, consoling, comforting ; 
finding consolation only in her profound faith—a 
faith illuminated and sure, that was to shine with 
dazzling splendour until her death: preparing her 
soul for the eternal conquest. 


Once more during the War her love for the compan- 
lions in art made her raise her voice in counsel, a 
counsel so strange that in comparison the “ Actors’ 
Library ”’ could be considered as a sane proposition. 

To limit the luxury that is the ruin of many actresses 
Eleonora Duse suggested the uniform costume—an . 
unattractive robe that was to be used by all com- 
panies. | 

It was never decided if the material as well as the 
model was to be the same or even what kind of material 
was to be used ; nor if the same costume should serve 
for comedy as well as tragedy. 

At first most people believed she was joking, but 
in that they were sadly mistaken: she was intensely 
serious. 

Thus the queen and faithful maid-servant, the 
peasant and grand ladies, would offer to the eyes of an 
audience the insupportable, impossible monotony of 
the mode in sacks; that would certainly drive the 
public from the theatre, instead of inviting them to 
enter. 

This time a monstrous orchid was born in the 
enchanted garden. 

With quite another conception of the necessity 
of the theatre, in 1908 Yvette Guilbert organised 
“Le vestiare du théatre,”’ a work of direct purifica- 
tion, putting the generosity of the rich French women 
to proof, as a means of saving at least a few actresses 
from ruin: for by having at their disposal the slightly- 
used frocks of the society women they were able to 
procure the necessary stage elegance at a low price. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 233 


Though the Duse’s idea of economy was not zsthetic- 
ally pleasing, the magnetism exercised by her was 
so strong that the theatrical world sang a hosanna for 
the find, and one company even went so far as to apply 
the system. ... It is useless to say how quickly 
they dismissed it. 

Evidently Eleonora Duse, far from the theatre— 
her true element—was mistaken in her ideas of the 
real needs of the class to which she was born. 


Shortly after the War, while Italy was fighting 
against Socialism, the newer Fascismo not yet 
organised, her long work at the Front a thing of 
the past, she began to think again of the moving- 
picture as a possible means of earning a discreet living, 
and at the same time giving her an occupation that 
her frail health could bear. 

To Marco Praga the theatre-going world owes a 
debt of infinite gratitude, for it was he who conducted 
the Duse’s thoughts to a return to the stage, as the 
most certain way of assuring a comfortable old age for 
herself and a new glory for Italy. 

Those who had the good fortune of seeing her at 
any time during the two years that she played after 
her return can only send blessing to Marco Praga 
for the unforgettable vision of true grandness . . . the 
music of her voice that must ever ring in their 
ears. 


After peace was declared the Duse returned to 
Florence, from there taking short trips to Rome, 
the mountains, or the sea, and at last settling at Asolo, 
in the delightful villa owned by Miss Katherine Onslow, 
first cousin to the Earl of Onslow. 

In the autumn of 1920 Marco Praga, the friend and 
devoted admirer, surprised her among her books and 





234 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


flowers . . . and returning to Milan he gave out the 
hopeful news of Eleonora Duse’s possible return to 
the stage. 

Several months before the visit to Asolo, Praga, 
who for some years had practically lost sight of the 
Duse, owing to the War separating them, received a 
note from her, which simply said : 

“‘ Am here for a few days only. I would like to see 
you. Come.” 

That same evening he went to her hotel. As he 
entered her room she extended the beautiful white 
hands, and without preface said: 

“My dear old friend, I must work. I have only 
enough money to live on for a couple of years. It is 
necessary for me to; help me.” 

What a joy, and what a sorrow, to think of her 
acting again ! 

And it was for need, absolute need, that she had 
sent for him, to ask his advice. And when he spoke 
of the stage, she hesitated. Yes, it was for need, for 
her daily bread, but no one must know it. The noble 
austerity of her soul, the legitimate pride of the woman 
and actress, would not permit her return to the stage 
to arouse a sentiment of pity for the woman. Rather 
the public take it as the vanity of the actress, of a 
miserable desire for new glory, and the pleasure of 
hearing her name on the lips of the world. ... And 
so she made the statement later that, having regained 
her health, she felt in form to return, even ifonly for _ 
a short while, and that she desired to work because 
it seemed to her to be the duty of every loyal Italian 
to make something of him, or herself, for Italy—the 
Italy renovated by the War; to do something, the 
best that one could, for the pleasure and the elevation 
of the multitudes still debating between the shock 
that the devastation left in all hearts and the relief — 
that the final victory had brought. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 235 


That was what she said, and hoped the world 
would believe. And it is not impossible, given her 
exquisite sensibility and noble soul, that such a 
thought really was in her mind. 

But the years were weighing heavily on her, though 
she was only a little over sixty, for illness had tor- 
mented too much and too long the delicate body ; and 
her desire also to carry her stone to the edifice of the 
new Italy might never have been realised if petty 
and cruel necessity had not impelled her on. 


At Asolo, Marco Praga found the grand tragedienne 
—the dear little white-haired woman—sad, restless, 
doubtful. She feared her return to the stage. She, 
the Duse! When at last Praga convinced her that 
she was certain of success, and that Italy wanted, 
needed, to see and hear her again, he left the villa, 
and slowly began the descent to the Square. 

“Listen,” she called after him: “ write something, 
publish something. Say that you hunted me out, 
to try to persuade me to play again, to do a short 
tour. That it was you, urged by the others... . 
And that I have not yet said ‘ yes,’ or ‘no.’ Do you 
understand? I’m afraid! If they think this weird 
idea is mine, I should be ashamed. ... And the 
reason why No, no, no! You understand me, 
my friend ? ” 

_ And when Praga’s article appeared in the papers, 
and it was known that her intention to return to the 
stage was more than a rumour, many of the faithful 
actors who had been with her twelve years before 
wrote to “their signora”’ that they were ready, if 
she wished to call them to her. .. . Ready to take 
whatever parts she could offer them. 

_ The Duse had always treated the members of her 
company as ladies and gentlemen, knowing in a 
marvellous way how to cancel the distance between 








236 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


—_—_— 


herself and the most humble of them. But woe to 
he who was guilty of the smallest discord. 

The actor, or actress who involuntarily committed 
a fault wounded the measureless sensibility for har- 
mony that she possessed as no one else ever had... 
and ran the risk of becoming, no matter what his 
position as actor, a negative quantity. 

For those who were near her she was ever wonderful, 
and at the same time it was exceedingly sorrowful to 
see how, without a moment’s warning, or apparent 
reason, she would change towards those who in her 
heart she desired to be kind to. . . . Even those who 
were not sensitive felt this changeableness and, not 
understanding why, for days remained perplexed, but 
never lamenting the fortune that had put them with 
her, for, in the words of d’Annunzio, which they all 
knew, there was a vague sense of comprehension : 

“She is always different, like a cloud that from 
second to second seems to change before your very 
eyes without your seeing the change,” etc. 


In 1920, before her plan to return to the stage, 
the Duse, restless, unsettled, suddenly decided to leave 
Florence and to spend a few weeks in Munich. A 
telegram was sent to engage rooms, and, accompanied 
by Mlle. Desirée—the Austrian lady who had been 
her companion before the War, and as soon as peace 
was declared with loving devotion returned—left for 
the Bavarian city. | 

Keeping her passport in her handbag, the Duse 
was always ready to start for any country at a moment’s 
notice. 

Arriving at Munich they got into a taxi. Before 
passing the station limits the taxi was stopped by a 
policeman, whose bullet head was plainly visible under 
the helmet, and their passports studied inside and 
out. , 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 237 


The Duse said nothing, but when they arrived at 
the hotel she refused to have the luggage taken off 
the taxi. : 

“Go and pay for the reservation of the rooms,” 
she said to Mlle. Desirée, “‘and ask what time the 
first train leaves for Italy.” 

Quite calmly, undisturbed by the long journey, 
she sat in the hall while the bill was being paid to the 
astonished manager ; to whom the Desirée could give 
no explanation other than that Madam had changed 
her mind—why, even she did not know. 

When they were in the train that was to take them 
to Italy the Duse explained: ‘“‘ Impossible! It’s still 
too soon to support the pig-headed ! ”’ 

She had travelled about thirty-six hours, spent a 
considerable sum, only to find that Germany was still 
Germany, and that Eleonora Duse was as much, or 
as little, to the authorities, as the smallest personality ; 
and Eleonora Duse was in the habit of being Eleonora 
Duse. 


“You, boys, have known how to fabricate with 
your own hands, by bloodshed and by laying down your 
lives, a divine and immortal drama before which one 
must religiously bow, devout and humble. 

“Tam taking up my work again for you, for you 
young people who have heroically lived through the 
massacre. ... I am here a bit worn, slightly bent 
by the weight of years, white-haired and very old. 
. . . Do you want me just the same? I have great 
faith in you, in the new generation given us by the 
War ; so strong is that faith that I am able to conserve 
a little of it for myself. . . . In the past years ] have 
read everything that has been written about the War. 
. . . [have a little house—a refuge—up here at Asolo. 
Do you all know the place? Ithink youdo. WhenI 
open my window in the morning, before me as in a 


nse a I NT LN OE AN ARN ORE HNC ETE eT IY Ste nn 


238 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


frame is the Grappa. . . . I put two little vases of 
flowers on the window-sill: and my altar is there. 
And I contemplate, until the desire to light a candle 
and to pray comes to me. 

‘““T would like to now and always be the mother 
who teaches how to love life again, who exalts kindness 
and the beauty of life to the numberless sons, who, 
too near, and for too long, have been compelled to face 
death. And to carry to them not a word of doubt, but 
one of faith ! 

““ ELEONORA DUSE.”’ 


This letter was the Duse’s open appeal to the 
Italian public a short time before her return to the stage. 
She made her first reappearance with Ermete 
Zacconi at the Balbo Theatre, Turin, on the evening 
of May 5th, 1921, in “‘ The Lady from the Sea.” 
Naturally conscious as she was of the immense 
souvenir which she had left, she was terrified by the 
possibility of destroying, in those who had known her 
in her youth, the poetry of that souvenir, made ideal 
by the passing of time; and to those who had not 
known her, the image diffused by writers and the 
tales of those who had seen her. . . . So presenting 
herself on the stage of the Balbo Theatre that memor- 
able evening, she was oppressed by a tremendous 
anguish, which became deadly, almost paralysing her 
with fear, when, upon her entrance, the spectators as — 
one person rose and saluted her with a solemn applause - 
that lasted fully ten minutes. © | 
That evening there was no disillusion. She was 
the Duse, the Duse, the Duse. No one in the crowded 
theatre searched for adjectives. The Duse. And in 
those two words everything had been said. What an 
evening it was! Never had an audience in Italy 
been so thrilled . . . and how proud they all were 
to say afterwards: “I was there.” Hg 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 239 


Among the old actors who returned to the Duse 
were the two Roberts, who had met in her company 
twelve years before, and who, during the years of 
silence had not had the courage to act without their 
“signora,’ and so had turned to moving pictures, 
and even to commerce rather than go to another 
company. 

Some years before, in 1916, Enif Robert had passed 
through a severe illness, undergoing several dangerous 
operations, and while she was in the hospital the Duse 
went to see her many times. By the exercise of her 
strong will, her mere presence was sufficient to relieve 
the patient’s suffering. 

“T’m a little unknown actress, who played the 
left-over parts,’ Enif Robert said to me; “but I 
owe my health if not my life to Eleonora Duse, for 
the gentle affection and great kindness that she 
showered upon me during my hours of suffering. .. . 
When worn out by pain she gave me courage, and 
taught me that no matter what happened life was still 
worth while. ... And in return for that I would 
have willingly laid down my life, the life that she 
helped me to find, if by so doing I could have saved 
her a moment’s pain.” 

And just such love as that she inspired in all 
who had the honour and the blessed privilege to be 
near her. 

One day during Mme Robert’s illness the Duse 
appeared on the threshold of the little hospital room, 
a tiny pot of flowers in her hand; standing still she 
said: “It’s just a wee four-leaf clover plant, for good 
luck.” And,smiling, she advanced with her light step 
to the bedside, the mere sight of her pure sweet face 
instantly comforting the sick woman there. 

The great woman who, by the lightest touch of 
her hand, the inflection of her voice, or with a har- 
monious gesture, could alleviate the sufferings of others, 





240 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


for herself could find no consolation. . . . “‘ He saved 
others, Himself He could not save.’ In the last ten 
years of her life Eleonora Duse walked very close 
to the Divine Son, bearing nobly her Cross, as in fact 
she had borne it from birth, fulfilling to the best of 
her ability the mission for which she was sent into 
the world. 

In this affirmation of truth there is no desire to 

paint asad, desolate Duse ; no—for she then, as earlier 
in her life, knew how to pass over profound hater 
at times, in fact many times, to silence it entirely. . 
She often fabricated a serenity full of gaiety that was 
a benediction, a sense of well-being for those who were 
able to share the hours of joy with her. . . . She was 
always different—beyond analysis, and particularly 
for anyone who had known her in her prime and saw 
her again during the latter years. 

Many, many times she gave the comfort of her 
presence to the little actress, and never once during 
the long illness did her interest wane, for realising the 
moral importance of her assistance she continued to 
offer it freely. 

One day she sent three books, one of them a 
translation of Emerson, whose philosophy immediately 
had the effect she hoped for, giving Enif Robert, 
without exactly knowing why, a new hope of getting 
well. The other two books were Italian novels; a 
little note accompanied them : 

“T send you these three friends ; later I will come. 
Keep tranquil. God sees and provides.”’ 


And the day of the operation : 
“Serene acceptation. Calm. Collected. All will 


be well. All will be well. 
‘“‘ ELEONORA DUSE.”’ 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 241 


And two days after the operation, which had proved 
most successful : 


“Tam here with you, as I always am. I will not 
come into your room for fear of over-exciting you. 
We will see each other soon. 

| “ELEONORA DUSE.”’ 


In the sick woman she saw only the suffering 
companion who had need of comfort, and in a moment 
she had effaced the distance that had hitherto existed 
between the great artist and the little actress by 
addressing her in the familiar second person, thus by 
one word reaching Enif Robert’s heart and filling it 
with gratitude. 

So at the announcement of the Duse’s return it 
was with joy and faith that the unimportant little 
actress wrote to her “ signora’’ and benefactress. 

The reply was, ‘‘Come,’’ and the Roberts, the two 
ex-actors, who, alas! were no longer newly-weds, 
accepted the call. 


“The Lady from the Sea’ was being rehearsed 
at Rome. The Duse, as I have already said, had many 
copies of every play, each lined and underlined, ideas 
and comments on every scene fully described, in the 
continual research for the Ibsen truth. 

One morning she remembered that she had still 
another copy of “ The Lady” at Asolo, in which, in 
the serenity of her villa, she had made various import- 
ant notes. So important, that in the dust of the 
stage she could not recall them clearly. 

It was probably merely a question of a shade, of 
a tiny particular easily passed over, for any other 
actress—but for her it was of vast importance. 

She immediately sent the secretary of the company 
to Asolo. He telegraphed that he was unable to find 


Q 





242 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


the manuscript. She replied: “ Fill the trunks that 
you find with all the manuscripts and send at once.” 

Fourteen trunks arrived, in which she _ herself 
searched and . . . found. 


Though the opening at Turin met with such 
brilliant success, there was quite a difference a few 
months later at the “‘ Costanzi’’ of Rome (when the 
immense theatre seemed frozen by the reverent cold- 
ness that greeted the first performance). That evening 
the reality surpassed the dream, for the younger part 
of the audience had only heard of two Duses—the 
revealing reality, and the exquisite affectation—and 
before them there was a third Duse, of immaculate 
light. . . . Instead of the young, agitated woman of 
the fragrantly salt-scented hair, there came A Lady 
from the Sea, white-haired—whose voice alone 
rendered the entire spirituality of the drama. 

In the second act, when Ellida confessed to her 
husband, the very depths of the sea were sounded in 
her words. The marvel of Ibsen’s understanding of 
harmony, and his ability to express tragic poetry in 
simple prose, were more than eloquently revealed by 
Eleonora Duse’s interpretation that evening. 
There was no declamation, no singing dialogue—the 
actors were human beings. 

The final curtain brought a quiet, respectful 
enthusiasm : for the mystic charm of the grand trage- 
dienne had been too superior to arouse clamorousness. 

In hushed voices the audience, filing out of the 
theatre, spoke of her: 

“ She’s old.” 

“Yes, but the divine spark is still there.”’ 

“ That’s true, for after the first impression you 
forgot that her face was pale and lined and her lovely 
wayward hair white.” 

‘““She makes one think of a saint who has come 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 243 


back to earth to teach mere mortals how to live... . 
If I have to go without a dinner or so, in order to buy 
my ticket, I shall hear her in every play she gives. . . . 
Just the sound of her voice, that glorious silver tone, 
is enough to make a man forget his troubles.” 

She was glorious, but different from the old days ; 
and the first tour brought forth nothing but praise. 
In the big cities she played to full houses, with a 
success that was never clamorous. 

Then came a short period of enforced rest, after 
which she called Ruggero Lupi, an excellent young 
actor, in Zacconi’s place. 

To realise the terrible difficulty of the short season 
one should hear Lupi tell of the ill-fated tour of the 
provincial towns. The Duse’s_ physical suffering, 
half-filled theatres, small profits and little success. 

She resisted, and that was all. Ether, oxygen, 
remedies which were not always sufficient. On the 
stage she leaned against tables or cha.rs for support, 
murmuring : 

fruponre ... Lupone ... I can’t go on.” 

She looked frequently at her hands, much as a 
very ill person does. 

One evening, vith a smile of sweetest sacrifice, she 
said : 

“These provincial people are right. The prices 
are too high to admire, to hear, to see an old woman.”’ 

There was no resentment in her voice, rather 
a sense of humility, as of the labourer who finds 
consolation in the work well done. 

Detached from the world, she acted. 

Detached, one might say from her body, she acted : 
for to win success another time she had nothing but 
her sacred pain. No longer the tenacious desire ; 
no longer the strange charm that was more than 
beauty, nor the legendary glimmer: merely an image 
of the past as a comparison to exiled old age. In the 





244 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


new world anxious for light, colour and fantasia who 
would be able to understand the melancholy lonely 
pilgrim taking again to the road ? Could a voice like 
hers, that was almost a tender lament, be heard among 
the hurried, nervous population ? 

Though a considerable amount of money was taken, 
the expenses of the company were heavy, for the 
actors were paid by the day, while the performances 
were limited to one or two at most each week; and 
there were weeks, even months, when she was abso- 
lutely unable to play, and the amount to be paid out 
remained the same. 

In the spring of 1922, owing to the Duse’s illness, 


all engagements were cancelled and the company 


disbanded, to be reorganised in August, 1922, when 
Memo Benassi became the leading man. 


They opened at Trieste in September. The re- 
ception was one of fervid adoration, particularly on 
the part of the women, who had organised a special 
committee to pay homage to the Duse. ... The 
first evening they scattered flowers all along the street 
from her hotel to the theatre, and when she arrived 
they were kneeling about the stage-door to exalt 
the actress, and also the woman who in her sublime 
strength during the years of the War had in her very 
silence wrought miracles of consolation and courage. 
This homage of the city liberated from Austrian rule 
was a public rendering of thanks to one who had 
helped towards its freedom. ; 


_ At Turin, a few months later, word was received 
that Sarah Bernhardt would be in Genoa in a couple 
of days to play at the Paganini Theatre. The Duse 
sent for the faithful Enif, and offered her a mission 
that filled the timid little actress with fear. 

“Sarah Bernhardt arrives at Genoa the day after 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 245 


to-morrow ’’—the Duse went directly to the subject 
in hand. ‘ I want her to receive my salutations. You 
know how to save an annoying situation by charming 
finesse, so I am sure I can trust you with this.”” With- 
out waiting for a reply she revealed her plan: “ You 
will select two hundred roses, rose de France—be sure 
that they ave rose de France—then you will leave for 
Genoa. You will take them to her at her hotel— 
not on the stage—and with them this note... . 
The roses must be in a beautiful bunch, untied, so that 
when she takes them they will fall all about her. ... . 

“You quite understand ? Yes, and I’m sure you 
will do all this with finesse, in twenty-four hours.”’ 

Having acquired more faith in herself from the 
Grand Teacher’s words than in thirty years of auto- 
suggestion, Enif Robert left Turin. 

“Tf the Duse has faith in me,” she thought, 
_“ what does it matter what I become ? ”’ 

Arrived at Genoa she took the roses to the French 
actress's hotel. But she could not be received because 
an automobile accident had delayed the arrival, and 
“Madame ”’ had only two hours to rest before going 
to the theatre, so could not be disturbed. 

Therefore it was Fate that took the roses, against 
the wish of the giver, to the stage of the Paganini 
Theatre that evening. 

Sarah Bernhardt was enchanted by the delicate 
fragrant shower of her own French roses that fell 
about her. She embraced and kissed many times the 
little messenger, with almost violent effusion, and 
deluged her with questions : 

‘““Where is the Duse? Here? I know that she 
plays the day after to-morrow. Can I see her? I 
should be so happy to have a long chat with her!” 

When told that the Duse was at Turin and would 
not arrive until the day of the performance, she burst 
into new effusiveness. 





246 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“Oh! whata pity! Iam truly desolate! I would 
so gladly have told her personally of my gratitude for 
her charming thought, instead of telegraphing ! ” 

And after having recerved other expansive ex- 
pressions of thanks, Enif Robert was able to get away 
from the loquacious Sarah. 

“Well, how did it go?’”’ the Duse asked when 
she saw Mme Robert. 

‘““Signora, forgive me, but I found myself so con- 
fused by the excess of unexpected embraces—kisses 
and impulsive hugs—that.. . I didn’t make any of 
the respectful, deferential speeches that you expected 
me to.” 

“Oh!” the Duse said gaily. “I forgot to warn 
you! For the first time it is truly impressive to 
see her impetuous and loudly-gay manner of precipitat- 
ing herself upon a person. She is a vivacious per- 
sonality, astonishingly so for her age. . . . I’m sure 
that if we had met she would have said with perfect 
ease: ‘I am short a leg, and what are you short 
of >?’ And I would have been obliged to reply: ‘A 
lung.’ . . . And that, despite our courage, would have 
been an indescribable sadness.”’ 


While rehearsing with Zacconi, before beginning 
the engagement in 1921, Eleonora Duse formed a most 
affectionate friendship with Luciano Zacconi—the 
youngest son of the great actor—an adorable child of 
four. He was the one person, at that time, who found 
no difficulty in getting close to the Duse. 

Luciano knew the way to her dressing-room, and 
went in whenever he saw fit, always welcomed, and 
even permitted to sit on her lap. Between the two 
there was a continual exchange of courtesies. The 


Duse made Luciano a present of an automobile that 


moved by itself, and in exchange he wrote her an 
autographed letter. 


Wie ee Sch gai laa 
Can Oe eee Lees ie eee 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 247 


The automobile moved by itself: that was fine— 
but it was painted black. 

“T told you I wanted a white one,” the child 
announced to the great actress. 

“ All right,’’ the Duse replied with loving patience. 
“T will give you a white one.” 

And as she didn’t want the little soul to be tor- 
mented by waiting too long for the desired automobile, 
she herself went to search forit. Happy in the thought 
of the happiness her present would bring to the child, 
she sought until she found the toy. 

On the evening of the opening at the Balbo Theatre, 
a few minutes before the curtain, when the Duse, more 
than nervous, was anxiously awaiting the call, the door 
of her dressing-room burst open, and Luciano pre- 
cipitated himself on her lap, crying at the top of his 
baby voice: ‘‘ Viva la Duse!”’ 

How the child had succeeded in eluding the severe 
guards and passing unobserved through the many 
corridors to the dressing-room no one ever knew. His 
was the first demonstration that saluted her return, 
and in the sincerity of the good wishes and the childish 
cordiality she found a force and faith to more serenely 
confront the great battle. 


And while the Bernhardt was touring Italy, being 
carried in an armchair from the hotel to the automobile, 
and then to the stage,unable to stand without a support, 
the Duse was still able to walk, for, fortunately, she 
had both her legs, but the force she used in acting 
with only one lung was even greater than that of 
the Bernhardt. 

The Italians under protest went to hear the Bern- 
hardt, a few to the Duse, and, still under protest, to 
Zacconi, who with a mediocre company was at that 
time touring Italy. 

‘“What’s happened to us this year?” one heard 





248 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


onallsides. ‘“ Our theatres are overflowing with youth : 
Bernhardt, Duse, and Zacconi! Isn’t there some 
other old actor who wants to inflict himself, or herself, 
upon the Italian public ? ”’ 

So, though business was good in every city, at least 
half of the audience was composed of foreigners who 
perhaps had never had an opportunity to hear the 
Duse in her prime. The enthusiasm worn off after 
the first year of her return, the Italians had very 
little desire to hear their own Duse, and until she was 
dead, with rare exceptions, they did not proclaim her 
other than great. 


Late in October, 1922, the Duse was announced 
to play in Bologna, to be followed this time by the 
Bernhardt. . . . An American writer, who all her 
life had dreamed of one day seeing Eleonora Duse, had 
been staying in Bologna, but unfortunately was forced 
to leave the city the day before the first performance. 

At the Hotel Baglioni she asked if rooms were 
reserved for Eleonora Duse. When informed that 
the signora went to the Hotel Brun, she telephoned to 
find out at what hour she was expected—eleven 
o’clock that evening. Going to a florist, she selected 
the loveliest roses there, and without knowing the 
Duse’s preference, they were white. On her visiting 
card she wrote: 

“A simple American writer sends her homage to 
the greatest actress in the world.” 

And the roses were sent to the hotel. 

That evening at eleven o’clock, alone, the American 
woman went to the station, out on the platform, and 
finding a young man who, from his questions as to the 
exact arrival of the train, etc., she surmised was also 
waiting for the Duse, kept close to him. | 

She had always pictured a tall, imposing woman, 
and when a dear little old lady, dressed in black and 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 249 


walking with a cane, came from the train, accompanied 
by the young man, she felt only one thing—a poignant 
desire to rush forward and embrace the living picture 
of her own grandmother. . . . Her heart beating faster, 
she followed the great woman at a discreet distance, 
wanting to at least see her get into the closed automobile 
that the hotel was to have sent for her. . . . By some 
mistake the Brun automobile was not there, but the 
Baglioni closed auto bus was. ... The Duse went 
towards it. As she approached, the American stepped 
aside, her eyes intent on the lovely, lovely face. 
“Tf the Brun automobile isn’t here’’—the Duse 
turned to her companion, Mile. Desirée, letting her 


glance rest for a second on the American woman 


—‘“ we'll go to the blessed Baglioni.” 

Unfortunately, the young man had found a closed 
private automobile. With the suggestion of a smile 
she looked once more at the American, then turned 
away. 

Those few words were enough for the woman to 
remember the voice always, and as she returned to the 
Baglioni, alone, a lump kept coming into her throat. 
.. . She had seen Eleonora Duse, heard her voice ; 
the disillusion had been complete . . . but the reality 
was more beautiful than the illusion had ever been. 

In May, 1923, after months of hopeful waiting, 
the same American writer, on the pretext of having 
written a play for her, was admitted to the presence 
of Eleonora Duse ; and for forty minutes permitted 
to sit opposite her, to look into the marvellous eyes, 
to hear the voice that for those forty minutes was 
for her alone. 

They discussed the play, which, unfortunately, was 
never read by the great actress owing to the trans- 
lator failing to keep his word to have it ready by the 
month of August, when it was to have been taken to 
her at Asolo. 





250 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Of the conversation not one word has been or ever 
will be forgotten by the American woman, but the 
words which rest most vividly in her memory are these: 
“ Due sono la veritad—quello che st dice, and quello 
che non st dice.’ (There are two truths—what one 
tells and what one never tells.) 

When before leaving the American found courage 
to tell the Duse how she had gone to the station in 
Bologna just to see her, to know what the woman, more 
than the actress, was like, the Duse smiled wistfully 
and said : 

“Is it possible that there is one woman in all the 
world who would take the trouble to go to a cold 
station and to wait for a train that was sure to 
be late—just to see an old woman? And you 
sent flowers, also, to an actress you had never 
seenie 

‘“‘ Perhaps I sent the flowers as a tribute to Art.” 
As she watched Eleonora Duse the American thought 
she saw the brightness of unshed tears in the wonder- 
fully expressive eyes. ‘“‘ But,’’ she added reverently, 
“IT went to the station for the woman.”’ | 

“Dear child, it wasn’t worth your while.”” The 
Duse spoke sadly. 

‘““ Ah! signora, much as Eleonora Duse has thrilled 
me by her art, the glimpse of the dear little lady at 
the station thrilled me more.”’ 

“ T am glad,” she said softly. 


During her stay at Milan in 1922, before putting on 
a revised version of ‘“‘ La Citta Morta,’’ the Duse and 
Gabriele d’Annunzio met. He was in Milan for a 
political conference, and at her request went to the 
Hotel Cavour, where she was staying. 

The blind Anna, as made over by the Duse, only 
said words of renunciation and farewell to life, the 
beauty and cruelty of which she had known. Before 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 251 


presenting the character so entirely changed from the 
original, she wanted the author’s approbation. 

With her vivid sense of irony, even against herself, 
she recounted the brief visit : 

The poet came to meet her as she entered the room 
—hands outstretched, and taking hers, he murmured : 

featy friend...” 

She paid no attention to his visible emotion and 
nothing was said of the long-dead past—glorious, joyous 
andsad. They talked of his drama, of his present work, 
and even what he still hoped to do. He had only 
words of praise for the modifications which she had 
made. ... In saying farewell at the door of her 
sitting-room, a sudden wave of memory seemed to pass 
over him. 

“And yet,” he said, trying to keep hold of the 
friendly hand, “ not even you can imagine how much 
I loved you!” 

And the Duse, serious, with that charming gracious- 
ness all her own, replied : 

“And, to-day, not even you can imagine how 
much I have forgotten—you ! ” 

This was absolutely true. She had lived for so 
many years an intense spiritual life, far from terrestrial 
restlessness—she was restless, it is true, but it was 
the restlessness of a quality essentially higher—for 
she had forced herself to annihilate the tempestuous 
past, that had been the means of such intense 
suffering. 


In January, 1923, at the Filodrammatici Theatre, 
Milan, the Duse gave her last performance in that 
city. ... The theatre, which had been renovated, 
was badly heated. Owing to the cold, which she had 
always felt intensely, her performance was painful, 
her suffering plainly visible; and at the end of the 
play, “‘ La Citta Morta,” instead of the three piercing 





252 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


cries which she should have given, the Duse was only 
able to give one. 

The following day she took to her bed, and eight 
days later pleurisy had developed, which kept her 
confined to her room for the balance of the winter. 

Despite the constant use of oxygen and camphor, 
the asthma persisted without a moment’s respite ; 
and yet, ill as she was, she never forgot the company 
depending upon her, nor would she consent to dis- 
charging them, as she had a perfect right to do. 

Those who were near her then saw the most 
beautiful example of courage and resistance that can 
be imagined. 

Feeling that she who had suffered would best know 
how to be calm and quiet near a sick poe she once 
again called upon the faithful Enif. . And in the 
months that followed there was never a lament, 
never a gesture of discouragement over her physical 
condition, nor a word about the financial ruin that 
the enforced repose was bringing upon her. 

After patiently breathing the oxygen for the fifth 
time that day she said: | 

‘““Many times I have prepared myself for death. 


. I wonder why I must live on...?” Then, 
with a resigned little gesture: “God doesn’t want 
me!” : | 

With what faith she lived and suffered. .. . And 


how infinitely greater—I must repeat it—-the woman 
was than the actress—and as actress she had no 
equal. 

. Her soul was of unlimited spiritual resource, 
capable of penetrating into the infinite mysteries of 
religion and of comprehending what only an elect 
few are able to. 


In the moments of calm between the spasms of 
coughing, sitting up in bed, she recounted one after 


7 » fees o 
ad A, i - op at: ots D: iin! A he 
ee eee ee Se eet Pe Or te ey NIT ae oem Prtige st: an P 
ee By el ae ee ee ea SR ee el a ee ee Eee 


Ct ee a eae ee ee nee 





Eleonora Duse : The Story of Her Life 253 


another the delicious incidents of her life, showing by 
her kind words how completely she had pardoned all 
those who had wronged or misunderstood her in the 
past. 

Her especial gift was in being able to say in ten 
words, with a photographic clearness, what any other 
person would not have been able to say in a hundred. 

“Read me a bit of Coué, he who helps to cure 
poor suffering flesh by the force of will.” 

After half an hour: 

“Enough! Even certain moral medicine must 
be taken in drops.”’ 

And later the same day, while talking of those 
she had really cared for, she said : 

“Oh, Yvette Guilbert, my dear Guilbert, how I 
should love to see her: she who renders the old French 
songs so deliciously. Yvette the inimitable. I believe 
I am homesick for a sight of her, for the nostalgic 
longing to hear the songs is a longing for the one who 
alone knows how to sing them.” 

With the oxygen near, from time to time opening 
the tube, she begary to sing in a high falsetto, with 
little gestures of shame coquettishly hiding her face 
in a wide purple veil that she wore about her shoulders, 
partly covering the white dressing-gown : 


‘« Dites-moi que je suis belle, 
Dites-moi que je suis belle !”’ 


The Duse’s correspondence was always copious. 
She wrote a great deal, arriving at an epistolary style 
of rare perfection. 

Telegrams were her daily habit. 

Telegrams that were short letters ; expensive cables 
which she never considered giving up in order to save 
on her annual expenses. 

When the period of scarce funds came she did 
without many luxuries, but it was never possible for 





254 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


her to give up books, flowers, or telegrams. . . . And 
there were days during the winter of 1923 when for 
her post alone she spent over two hundred lire, enough 
to have kept a small family in comparative ease. 

During her long illness her correspondence was 
piled into a basket in her private sitting-room of the 
Hotel Cavour, at Milan. . . . Finally, in desperation, 
she charged Enif Robert to reply in her name to the 
most urgent letters; and together they went through 
them. 

Of the several hundred, a few are worth mentioning © 
as a proof, not only of the strange human psychology 
but also of the great faith that many had in the 
possibility of help from the woman with undoubted 
powers of consolation, who, even when she could not 
give material aid, never failed to give a word of 
comfort. 

An old actor asked her for . . . a grave! 

He said he was too poor to procure it for himself, 
and implored her to let him die content: he asked 
nothing to relieve his declining days, but dying he 
wanted to know that he would have a worthy resting- 
place. 

A Sister, head of an orphan asylum, turned to the 
Duse for pecuniary help. . . . A Sister looking to the 
theatre ! 3 

But the Duse was not only the actress, she was, 
even to those who did not know her personally, the 
Grand Creature of infinite spiritual resource, who 
treated the spirits of others, even in modest places. 

The Sister asked also for a good word for her 
little orphans. 

‘“What shall I say, mio Dio, to the lonely little 
ones...I... to-day? I am so, so tired, I can 
no longer use my strength for the good of others.” 

She said it in a tone of voice that left no doubt 
of her true state of fatigue and renunciation. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 255 


So the improvised secretary wrote a few words that 
later she read to the “ signora.”’ 

The letter began: ‘‘ Reverend Mother.” 

The Duse burst out laughing as she said: 

“Brava! Brava! How and where did you learn 
to deal with the religious orders? I didn’t suppose 
* you had such a profound knowledge of the hierarchy 
of the convents! ’’ And she continued to laugh, heartily, 
‘approving the words of comfort and faith in God that 
the secretary read. 

Then changing the subject : “‘ You write very well: 
generally speaking, all women write well ; much better, 
especially letters, than men, no matter how cultivated 
they may be. 

“T remember I wrote a letter many years ago, a 
very important letter, to a most illustrious person. A 
noted writer was with me, and I showed him what I 
had written. ...‘ More than good,’ he said, ‘I 
couldn’t have done it better, or said more, myself.’ 

“You understand how they put on airs? And I 
thought then, that men sin when they fancy themselves 
the superior sex—and how they sin! ”’ 


All religious orders, and particularly the nuns, 
had the greatest admiration for the Duse. Ina certain 
convent, in the squalid room of alittle nun, there is a 
large photograph of the grand actress. The Sister, 
a young peaceful soul, explained to an astonished 
visitor: ‘It is a face that reflects a grand interior 
beauty, and in looking at her, the living expression of 
humanity, I think of our intelligent saints and some- 
how feel better. What difference is it if Fate made 
her an actress ? ”’ 

Another of the numerous letters was from a young 
girl, who, after recounting at length the misery of the 
entire family, asked for money to buy a new uniform 
for her brother, a non-commissioned officer of the 





256 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


navy, who could not join his ship unless he had 
one 


“ What a pity not to be able to relieve the sufferings 


of those who turn to me for consolation,” the sick 


woman said sadly. ‘I have always done what I 
could—and sometimes even more. To-day I can do 


nothing—TI am ill and alone, at the head of a theatrical ~ 


venture in a moment of difficulty. . . . No, I truly 
can do nothing.” | 

The Duse had at times provided regally for many 
benefits, for money to her was never other than an 
instrument for the good of others. 

From the moment that fame permitted her the 
free use of money, she spent at all times, and upon all 
occasions, with the free hand of a truly great lady. 

‘Before those who have nothing,” she said, “I 
want to ask pardon for the little that I possess; give 
all, in an anonymous gift.” 


Again she was well enough to get up. Once more 
she had beaten the dread monster back. (Alas! it was 
her last victory over the inexorable disease.) And she 
was full of courage, strong, ready to resume her march. 

She talked frequently of producing new plays: 
Pirandello had promised her something grand and 
sweet, Gino Rocca also was going to give her a true 
Italian mother. Edouard Schneider, the French 
playwright, and her very good friend, had written 
‘“Esaltation ’’ for her. Over this play she was most 
enthusiastic, and ardently hoped to give it at a 
future date. 

While searching for a réle adapted to her, the Duse 
received several hundred manuscripts, and not a few 
authors had the honour of talking over their work with 
the great woman ; and the writer’s own play: “ The 
Mills of the Gods,” also written specially for her, was 
looked upon with favour by the great Duse. 


te 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 257 


She had always had a reverent adoration for Paris, 
and envied the French their ‘“‘ Vieux Columbier,’’ for 
it was just such a theatre that she dreamed of for 
herself either at Milan or Rome. This dream might 
have been realised had she lived longer, for until 
the time she left for the United States the project 
of giving her the Filodrammatici at Milan, as a theatre 
where young art, under her direction, would have its 
chance, was much talked of. 


Some time during the long illness of the winter of 
1923, Mussolini, the Italian Prime Minister, sent 
Margherita Sarfatti as his ambassadress to offer 
Eleonora Duse a pension from the Government, a 
sum sufficient to permit her to live without working. 

When the object of the visit was timidly made 
known, the Duse replied promptly, and with great 
dignity : 

“No, no, no! Thank you, but I do not ask any- 
thing! I do not want anything! I cannot accept 
anything! I am profoundly grateful—even moved. 
. . . Please tell the Prime Minister that. But what 
he offers is not possible! We are a young country ; 
Italy is poor, everyone who possibly can must give 
instead of taking—give with all his strength. ... As 
long as I can drag about, as long as I can stand, I 
must work! I only ask to be able to work, for it is 
right that I should live by my work alone! ”’ 

Admiring her courage, but not quite convinced, 
Margherita Sarfatti later returned to timidly insist 
upon the Government’s offer at least being considered. 
She found the same determination on the Duse’s part. 

“No money, no! If the Prime Minister truly 
wants to help me, I will ask two favours of him: to 
do what he can to enable me to lease the Filodrammatici 
for a season, and’’—with an exquisitely beautiful 
gesture, “‘ I have a superb offer from the United States, 

R 





258 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


and I should like to go—to make our beautiful language 
sing once more in ears unaccustomed to it. But, if 
I should die over there, who would think of my 
company ? So I want you to ask the Prime Minister 
to solemnly assure me of the ambassador’s assistance 
for my actors; in case of my illness to see that they 
get their money from the American manager, or if I 
die to send them safely back to Italy.”” And turning 
the palms of her hands upwards towards Heaven she 
invoked aid, not for herself but for the others. ‘‘ How 
can I,’’ she added sadly, ““ how can I abandon them 
so? No—lI could not take the chance of going to a 
far-away land unless I knew that in dying I could 
be tranquil for the safety of my actors.” 

And when Mussolini gave his promise, and still 
further insisted upon immediate financial aid, she 
accepted thirty thousand lire, in order to pay her 
company for the weeks that she had been unable to 
work, but not one sou of the amount was spent on 
herself. 


The days of convalescence passed slowly, and as 
soon as she was able to travel it was arranged for her 
to pass the early spring in Naples, where it was hoped 
the balmy air and warm sunshine would help in the 
cure and enable her to fulfil a long-promised engage- 
ment there. 


The papers in February of 1923 published a bitter 
letter from d’Annunzio to the Italian Press... . 
A breath of frozen discontent seemed to have passed 
over the poet’s spirits, and the letter was full of 
unpleasant thoughts. 

From Gardone, the refuge of the hero of the for- 
midable soul, into whose life of highest poetry a thing 
of profound significance had come with the golden 
days of his soldier life, he wrote the message full of 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 259 


displeasure, irony, melancholy, and bitterness to the 
Press. 

Still convalescent, the Duse, who had every reason 
to complain of the cruel hostility of life that day, 
heartily disapproved of the poet publically giving 
vent to his rancour. 

‘“‘ All this shows what it means not to have a friend 
near in certain moments of discouragement which 
come even to the strongest, most tempered souls. 
. . . Asincere friend, one who is intelligent enough to 
destroy a letter in time. . . . To-day he is suffering 
intensely. ... He sought a superb death on the 
battlefields, flying over Vienna, or in any of the 
numerous episodes of the past, sought for, and lived 
through with magnificent, courageous audaciousness. 

“ He lived the War as no other Italian ; his heroic 
soul breathing freely in the atmosphere of danger and 
passionate patriotism. 

“Then he could have died well. 

‘““ Now he is bearing his cross... heis tired... 
I also am tired, and yet I live. Healso lives. He, as 
he so ardently wished, should be dead. .. . Still we 
are both alive ... why?” 

From above she sought the answer to her question, 
for instinctively her eyes turned to the window, to the 
dull sky of the winter morning. . . . For a moment 
she was silent, far away; then serenely she talked 
again on another subject. 

Her faith in God had been her consolation then, 
as at many other times in the immediate past. 


At Naples, despite the effort she tried to make, it 
was impossible for her to act. The cough was inces- 
sant, absorbing the little vitality she had. 

In a beautiful room of the Hotel Vesuvius, she 
sat for hours each day in a big armchair beside the 
window overlooking the sea. Dressed in a soft white 


~ 





260 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


frock, the large folds falling gracefully about her, her 
face no less white than the frock, she seemed as she 
talked more a saint come to life than the world’s greatest 
tragedienne, the woman of infinite caprices, mortal 
sins and sorrows... . 

Naples, the beautiful, had not been lucky for her ; 
for three years consecutively she had gone there to 
play, and each time, for one reason or another, she had 
not been able to fulfil the engagement. 


This time it was the terrible weakness as well as — 


the cough that kept her confined to her room. 

Often she kept Enif Robert with her for hours at 
a time, the alert mind of the younger woman a delight- 
ful distraction for her. 

They talked very little of the theatre, and less of 
what is generally supposed to interest women, but 
sometimes the conversation would turn to the writers 
of this and other generations. Once, in speaking of 
Ibsen, she mentioned a visit she had paid to his house 
during a brief Norwegian summer. 

She had found the old man disgusted with every- 
thing, the world at large and Art in particular. In 
the house built high above the fjords, safe from the 
winter snows, all was sad. 

Going to a little-travelling-bag she took out a 
locket containing a lock of hair. 

“Tbsen’s son sent me this as a souvenir when his 
father died. For me he was the grandest play- 
wright of this century; and after him, Bernard 
Shaw.”’ 


Matilde Sarao, the friend of her youth, was among - 


the many visitors during the two months passed in 
Naples. .. . After one of these visits the faithful 


Enif found the Duse gay, serene, ready to laugh and © 


joke, as in her happiest hours. 
The Sarao, accomplished writer, and most cul- 
tured of women, had said to the girlhood friend : 


_— . 
FE A ee. | 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 261 


“Courage, Eleonora! God has never abandoned 
you, and He never will.” 

These simple words exchanged between the two 
great women, who could, had they desired, have had 
a conversation of the highest and most profound 
interest, have a certain significance. 

The humility of the thought, and the hope it 
contained, was an eloquent consolation for the Duse. 
. . . And in America the following year; during the 
last days of her life, she frequently repeated : 

“ As Matilde said : ‘ God will not abandon me.’ ” 


By the end of April she was strong enough to go 
out, and even to travel. . . . At the Pergola Theatre, 
Florence, she gave three performances during the 
month of May; and it was while there, at the Hotel 
Italie, that it was arranged for her to go to London 
in June for a series of six special matinées at the 
New Oxford Theatre. 

The three plays to be given there—‘ Cosi Sia,” 
“The Lady from the Sea,” and “ La Citta Morta ’”’— 
were rehearsed in Florence. During the rehearsals 


_ the possibility of a voyage to the United States was 


discussed. 

“Nothing is certain,’ the Duse announced; “ we 
will see later ; now we will go to London, and perhaps 
that will be the bridge towards the other world across 
the seas. So we will leave, children; courage, and 
strong hearts! At London I have my little oasis of 
well-being. ... I have also many faithful friends, 
and a circle of good souls who call me Sister.” 

For many years the English manager, Charles 
Cochran; had tried to persuade the Duse to come to 
London, and when in May, 1923, she telegraphed him 
that she would like to give six matinées under his 
direction, he thought she was joking. 

The conditions were all arranged by telegram, and 


262 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


before Cochran could send her a contract she tele- 
graphed that she was on the point of leaving. 

While the plans were being made for London, 
Mussolini, from whom nothing that is good for the 
welfare of the Patria escapes notice, again offered the 
glorious Italian actress an appanage, so that she could 
remain in Italy free from financial worries. 

She refused as before. 

Remaining in Italy she wanted to work; as she 
had already stated, she did not ask for, nor wish, money 
that would be dead capital for the country ; instead 
she desired a theatre at Rome, financed at the start 
by the Government, later to be self-supporting—she 
herself to act from time to time, thus having a right 
to the money that the Government would pay her. 

Mussolini’s exact reply was: 


“Write when you think best. If it is in the 
interest of the Italian theatre your proposition will be 
law for the government presided over by me.” 


The Duse’s admiration for Mussolini was unlimited ; 
she felt and said that even across the momentary 
adversity he was the man who could lead Italy to 
her high destiny. . . . She had perfect faith in the 
government under him. | 

She would write; certain that her wish would be 
granted; but, in the meantime, arrangements had 
been made and it was necessary to go to London. 

Mr. Cochran, upon receipt of her telegram advising 
him that she was leaving, went at once to Paris to 
meet her and accompanied her to London. The short 
trip tired her terribly ; nevertheless, the day after her 
arrival she wrote him from Claridge’s : 

‘‘ Everything has gone well, and I thank you with 
all my heart. JI am more than happy to be here with 
you. Best wishes and salutations.”’ 


ate i 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 263 


Her greatest preoccupation before going to London 
was for Ellen Terry ; so much so that in one of her 
telegrams she asked to have a box reserved for the 
grand English tragedienne for the first performance— 
a request which she repeated in a letter to Cochran 
a few days before the first matinée. 

Contrary to the expectations of many, Ellen Terry 
was not at the station to receive Eleonora Duse upon 
her arrival in London, owing, it is believed, to indis- 
position; however, her daughter was there in her 
place, and during all of the Duse’s stay was most 
devoted and attentive.... For each of the six 
performances she took entire charge of the stage 
lights, and saw to the minor arrangements of the 
scenes. 

The grand Italian had a vast number of ardent 
admirers among the English public, where she 
was considered not only the greatest actress of 
her time but the highest type of lady of the 
theatre. 

Mr. Cochran, who had also managed Bernhardt 
for various London engagements, said : 


“It would be impossible to find two women more 
diverse. Sarah was born to fight and to triumph over 
all difficulties. Instinctively I wrote Sarah, yet it 
would have been difficult for me to have addressed the 
grand Italian so. With Sarah it was natural to talk 
business, even argue, knowing beforehand that I 
would get the worst of it; but with the Duse, though 
she was always exquisitely courteous with me, I could 
never argue over money matters.’’ 


Six performances at the beautiful New Oxford 
Theatre—six matinées with not even standing room. 
Every well-known personality in London went to see 





264 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life | 


her, and there was enthusiasm such as the cold English 
public rarely demonstrates. 

And the Duse was comforted: the fine intelligent 
audience accepted her white hair, the old age not in 
any way veiled by artifice, the something singular 
and superior that time and the illusion of the stage 
could not destroy. 

Those who knew of the physical orks she was 
consuming found their admiration mingled with pity— 
increased by it. 
| “Cost Sia’”’ (Thy Will be done), a prose poem, a 

simple human short story, transformed at her request 
by Gallarati-Scotti, the author, into a soulful drama, 
-as rendered by Eleonora Duse was the most mystic 
play ever seen perhaps on any stage. ... When in 
the second act she was denounced by her son, for whom 
she had sacrificed her life, the Duse reached a suprem- 
acy in art that had never been equalled, and could 
never be surpassed. There was something so superb 
in her humility, something so divine, that I shall not 
even attempt to describe it. 

In her dressing-room at the New Oxford Theatre 
cylinders of oxygen were continually kept ready in 
case of sudden illness. And when she was taken from 
the stage after the first performance of “ Cosi Sia,” 
overcome by the tremendous force she had used, she 
fell fainting on the lounge in her dressing-room, where 
ne remained in a sort of catalepsy for nearly an 

our. 

And still forcing her will to do her bidding the 
courageous woman continued the engagement; and 
even managed to find sufficient strength to see many of 
her faithful friends, who overwhelmed her with kind- 
ness and affection. 

No beautiful young prima donna ever received more 
or rarer flowers than the woman of sixty-four, nor 
grander homage from great and small. . . . After each 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 265 


performance they called her again and again before 
the curtain, loath to let her leave them ; and when she 
left the stage door hundreds of men and women 
thronged the street, a dense crowd on either side from 
the door to the waiting automobile. . . . And when 
the little old lady in her modest black coat and hat 
appeared, loud clapping and cheers rent the air: 
“Duse! Duse! Long live the Duse! ”’ 

After the last performance, for forty minutes they 
kept her before the curtain to answer the unending 
applause, the entire audience crowding forward towards 
the stage, throwing flowers, and calling: “ Long live 
the Duse! Vzva Eleonora Duse! Come back to us, 
Duse! Come back soon!” 

Tears ran unheeded down the white cheeks. This 
demonstration from a public little given to showing a 
sentiment whatsoever moved her deeply. . . . She 
was old, ill, but they wanted her. These stalwart 
English people loved the frail little woman unable to 
openly express her thanks ; and across the footlights, 
without knowing what they said, she understood. 

There were tears in the eyes of all her actors, and 
there were tears in the eyes of most of the audience 
. . . for what is more beautiful, or can so deeply stir 
even the coldest hearts, than—in the midst of glory 
—an eternal farewell... . They asked her to come 
back—yet many, many in the vast audience knew she 
never could. 


' On the return trip from London the Duse stopped 
for a few daysin Paris. In Ada Rubinstein’s spacious, 
elegant, studious drawing-room, on the grand piano, 
she signed her contract with Morris Gest for twenty 
performances in the principal eastern cities of the 
United States. 

The company returned to Italy, and the Duse 
eventually went to Switzerland, where she hoped to 





266 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


be joined by Edouard Schneider, the French playwright, 
and his wife. 

Arrangements were also made in Paris for the 
Duse to give a few performances in Switzerland, alter- 
nating with Yvette Guilbert, which would have been 
most advantageous for her, as the good kind friend 
Guilbert had offered to play twice to the Duse’s once, 
and to divide the proceeds. . A misunderstanding 
on the part of the management brought about by the 
interference of the Duse’s friends was the reason for 
the project falling through. 

Between Lausanne and Berne, Eleonora Duse passed 
the last summer of her life, calm and peaceful after 
having signed the contract that was to take her to 
America in October. 

But even with all plans made she was not permitted 
to rest until October; for in September, tied by a 
severe contract which it seems was made practically 
without her consent, the poor Duse was obliged to go 
to Vienna for twenty performances, but, having to 
sail October 6th, it was impossible to give the stipu- 
lated number. 

By the help of her lawyers it was finally established 
that she was to give three performances in September, 
the other seventeen beginning February Toth, 1924, 
after her return from America. 

The three performances in the old Austrian capital 
aroused the usual affectionate ovations and at the last 
one she received the shower of flowers for which the 
Viennese are famous and which they had never 
missed giving to their favourite foreign actress. 


Outwardly strong, inwardly fearful, the courage 
to affront the fatigue of the long trip, and infinite com- 
plications of the tour of the United States came to the 
Nomad ...came through her faith in Him, the 
Ruler of man’s destiny. 





Bust OF MADAME ADA RUBINSTEIN. 


By George Fite Waters. 


». 266. 





> 


Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


“ Signore, Se ser tu, 
Commanda ch’10 venga a te 
Sopra le acque.”’ 


“ Christ, if Thou art Thou, 
Command that I come to Thee, 
Over the waters.”’ 


267 





268 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 





PART IV 


The Departure for New York—Touring the United States—Il]ness— 
Death at Pittsburg, Pa., U.S.A., April 21st, 1924—Funeral in 
New York—The Arrival in Italy—Her Last Journey—Her 
Final Resting-place, 


BEFORE arriving at a definite decision as to whether 
she dared venture to America, the Duse talked with 
many of the young Italian writers, and one and all 
- were impressed by the profound religiousness in the 
woman who had always in the past demonstrated a 
complete indifference to all matters regarding the 
Church. 

From the time of her return to the stage she spoke 
continually of a desire to unite the Church and the 
theatre, believing that the stage could reach the faith- 
less far easier than the Church could. By the pre- 
senting of religious plays she was convinced that many 
wanderers would eventually be brought back to the 
Fold. 

De Flers, the French writer, speaking of his last 
visit to the Duse, in 1922, said that one part of her 
conversation was most significant as to the trend of 
the woman’s thoughts : 

‘“‘T would like, before I leave for always, to raise 
myself for my art, and, by it, to the grand subjects; 
sacred and mystic subjects. ... The theatre came 
from the Church, I would like it to return with me. 
... I have a beautiful play that is to be my first 
step (‘ Cosi Sia’). You will see it one day.” 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 269 


To Renato Simoni, the finest Italian dramatic 
critic, she said: ‘‘ Perhaps I have lived wrong. I fre- 
quently recall my father’s words, and wonder. He 
told me: ‘ Remember that a woman’s place is in the 
home, where she has great duties of kindness to 
fulfil.” ... Have I not gone against my destiny, 
leaving the normal route, running about here and 
_ there—an actress without rest or peace? ’”’ Sad tears 
were in her eyes; then of a sudden they dried and a 
sweet light overspread her face. ... “‘ After all,” 
she added, “I have lived humanly. I have given 
myself to many things—to life with inexhaustible 
ardour—and I am not sorry.” 

And later, when mention had been made of a con- 
ciliation with the Church, she answered softly : 

“Tam not yet a practitioner, but I believe.”’ 

She had read with interest Papini’s ‘‘ Life of Christ,”’ 
and Maurice Blondell’s “ L’Action,” and frequently 
indulged in long talks on religion with her dear friend 
Tommaso Gallarati-Scotti, an ardent Catholic. At a 
certain point she smiled : 

“You don’t perhaps know that I am like the little 
dancer who, before going on the stage, made the sign 
of the Cross? Go to St. Carlo’s Church, there you 
will find all the flowers I received last evening... . 
I sent them as an offering to the Madonna.”’ 

Concluding : 

“Notwithstanding all the heavy luggage that 
encumbers me, I am returning to God as I returned to 
Art: the best I know how. ... Yesterday I read 
words from the Gospel that greatly comforted me: 
Peter sees Jesus far away on the waters, and says 
to Him: 


“Christ, if Thou art Thou, 
Command that I come to Thee, 
Over the waters.”’ 





270 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


With the hope of finding her God over the waters, 
she put her house in order ; made ready for the trip. 


With the exception of her young leading man, all 
the actors were nervous and fearful for the effect the 
American tour might have on the poor body, tormented 
and devastated by illness. 

A few hours before her departure from Vienna for 
Cherbourg, via Paris, the Duse sent for the entire 
company. ) 

“We are leaving, figliols (my children),’’ she said, 
“to go far away, on a long artistic pilgrimage. We 
must all do our best—-stick together through thick 
and thin. ... There is nothing to fear, for on the 
other side of the Atlantic we have a faithful public who 
even now are acclaiming us. . . . You can have faith 
in me, for your return is assured, even if we should 
not come back together.”’ 

To all of their protests she smiled serenely, and 
continued : 

‘““ What is to be will be. In life one must think of 
everything, be prepared for anything, without stupid 
sadness or fear. . . . Mussolini, as you all know, 
wants to keep me in Italy, but, as yet, there is no 
possibility of my having a theatre in Rome established 
for me, and I cannot accept unless I give something 
in return. . . . While I am away the matter may be 
adjusted, and when we return—who knows? ” 

With motherly sweetness she saluted them all, and 
for each one she had some special word of kindly cheer. 

Too preoccupied about her health to say the words 
of farewell and good wishes for a safe crossing, they 
offered instead many, many roses, a subtle pain in 
their hearts as one by one they took and kissed the 
beautiful white hand. 

““ Ragazzi (boys and girls), you are going off without 
a manager—in other words, without a guide—but I 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 271 


trust and believe in you, and know that all will be 
well. . . . I arrive before you do, so you must send 
me a Cable from mid-ocean. ... We will meet in 
New York. Arrivederci!” 

With a limpid, tender glance she looked from one 
serious face to another, gathered up all the gorgeous 
white roses, and without another word disappeared 
into the adjoining room. 

The company was sent to Genoa to sail on an 
Italian liner, while the Duse, accompanied by Miss 
Katherine Onslow, her companion (Mlle. Desirée) and 
a maid, on October 6th embarked from Cherbourg. 

At Cherbourg she also bid farewell to her daughter, 
Henriette, whom she was never to see again. 

Courageous and serene she departed, and in the 
same state of serenity landed at New York, after an 
ideal crossing, without having suffered a moment 
from seasickness. 

At New York the greatest triumph of her career 
awaited her, and a reception that is rarely accorded 
to other than Royalty. All traffic was stopped and, 
escorted by mounted policemen, the automobile that 
took the Grand Actress to the Hotel Majestic passed 
swiftly through the superb streets of the Metropolis, 
where even the pedestrians paused a moment as she 
passed. 

The marvel of the reception filled her with fear— 
fear that in her frail condition she would not be able 
to reply to the demand that was being put upon 
her. 

Three days before the company’s arrival at New 
York the promised cable was sent: ‘‘ We are coming 
willingly, devotedly.”’ The reply reached the ship a 
few hours later: ‘“‘ As a mother, I await you.—Eleonora 
Duse.”’ 

When the actors arrived she was full of the won- 
derful reception and the grandness of the New Yorkers, 


272 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


but anxious as to the results of the much-anticipated 
engagement. 

At London she had been received more intimately, 
with affectionate devotion, and she had felt at home 
there among friends; but New York was immense, 
exacting, rich, and formidable. There everything 
was modern, of the highest class. New York was a city 
that could not easily be deluded. 

So in fear and trepidation she appeared, at the 
first performance of “‘ The Lady from the Sea,”’ in the 
vast Metropolitan Opera House. 

Arthur Symons once spoke of the Duse as “a 
chalice for the wine of imagination.’”’ And I doubt 
if that perfect phrase, as Kenneth Macgowan wrote, 
“ever fitted more perfectly than it did in the sixty- 
fifth year of her life when she came out, a very remote 
figure, upon the yawning stage of the Metropolitan. 
Then she was doubly the chalice. To the mystery 
and exaltation of her art was added a strange 
element of aloofness which made her, not the hybrid 
of actress and dramatic character to which this 
curious art of the theatre accustoms us, but a 
great person in the cast of another drama, which we 
call ‘ Life.’ . . . Our imagination rose to the art of 
voice and hands and body, but it rose, also, to an art 
of living which brought this extraordinary woman 
before us. It rose higher, I think, to the woman Duse 
than to the actress ; for not only an alien tongue, but 
the vast gulf of the Metropolitan intervened between 
our emotions and Ibsen’s ‘ Lady from the Sea.’ Duse’s 
art is more than realism, but it is founded, nevertheless, 
upon the intimacy of the realistic theatre, and neither 
at the Metropolitan nor at the Century, where she 
played for the balance of her brief engagement, can the 
living word of the playwright and the living presence 
of the player fuse with the soul of the spectator. In 
both houses the Duse was not so much an actress 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 273 





ministering to emotion as an extraordinary person, a 
legendary heroine, perhaps a goddess come before us. 
And it was not quite as though she were a great woman 
appearing in our midst. Behind the footlights, and 
across the gulf of these abominable theatres, Eleonora 
Duse became a kind of story. She seemed to be a 
legend of herself. 

_ “ All of which is a very murky effort to say how 
strangely the figure of the Duse moved many of us on 
this epochal occasion, and how oddly the art of the 
Duse left our playgoing emotions cold. Concede this 
anesthesia, admit that we did not suffer with the 
mother of ‘Ghosts’ and the woman of ‘The 
Lady from the Sea,’ then let us look more closely 
at the art which, under happier circumstances, 
might have left us wrung with the emotion of 
Ibsen. 

“ Eleonora Duse has reached an age at which actors 
retain none too much of their vigour, and actresses 
_ are so sapped that only the greatest—Bernhardt and 
this Italian—can keep a grip on their art. Duse has 
lived more truly and more fully than Bernhardt, and 
given more of herself to life. . . . Duse is weak; she 
cannot play more than twice a week, and two hours 
on the stage leave their mark upon her as she takes her 
final curtain. The Duse has never tolerated make-up 
or any artifice of wig or clothing to imitate vanishing 
‘youth. So to-day her Ellida Wangel would be aged, 
and her fascination for the young sailor a disgusting 
absurdity, if it were not for the soul and the art that 
still animate her so fully. The voice and hands, of 
which so much has been said, are never exaggerated. 
There seems nothing studied in her actions, nothing 
deliberate ; sometimes her hands flash nervously across 
her face when we are most anxious to see her expres- 
sion. Her movements are not an artifice but an 
inevitable outcome of emotion felt in the very soul 

S 





274 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


and irresistibly commanding a body fashioned consum- 
mately toobey. It is here in the soul of Duse and in the 
mystery of the body made one with it that we sense 
the ultimate of her art. And we cannot tag and 
label it. 

“We can be downright and documentary, however, 
on one aspect of the Duse. It is the relation of her 
acting to current modes. We have had, roughly, 
three kinds of playing in this first generation of the 
twentieth century. We have had the exploitation of 
personality coloured by artifice, a thing that begins 
with any one of our agreeable women stars and rises 
to the brittle pinnacles of Bernhardt. We have had 
the exploitation of personality fitted to type parts, 
a cast of characters by mail-order, a kind of stock-room 
realism. And we have had—most notably in the 
Moscow Art Theatre—true impersonation, made up 
of the surface art of wig and grease-paint, and of the 
deep of emotional identification. The Duse gives us 
a fourth art, an art unique in its combination of quali- 
ties. . . . She is unforgettably a person; she is the 
Duse. She is skilful with voice and body, but by 
inner emotion, not by artifice. The bare, clean skin 
of her cheeks speaks both sincerity and a kind of 
realism that stands against the theatrical even at its 
best. She turns her back on all the deliberate maskings 
of face and body which make so much of the art of the 
Russians, and which they make so much of. Eleonora 
Duse dresses her hair differently for the ‘ Lady from 
the Sea’ and the mother in ‘ Ghosts,’ and she wears 
appropriately different garments; yet it is essentially 
by the movements of the hands, face and voice that 
she defines the gulf between the two characters. 
Through the hands, the face and the voice, the Duse 
remains the Duse. It is only that an inner spirit has 
changed, and emanations appear before us in wrist 
or smile or intonation. The Duse understands more 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 275 


completely than any actress the mysteries by which 
the inner spirit is kindled and the emanations arise.”’ 


From more than a hundred newspapers I have read 
only praise for her art and admiration for the woman ; 
as one of the critics of a New York paper wrote: 


“Great and small from every walk of life went 
to pay homage to the Lady of the Stage, the fragile 
woman, of the pale face full of shadows and sweetness, 
who knows how to shed light where for our eyes there 
are only shadows.” 


That performance at the Metropolitan was im- 
memorable, unbelievable. Every seat in the house 
was sold in advance, and long before the curtain rose 
there was not even standing room. The total box-office 
receipts amounted to over thirty thousand dollars. 

The frail little lady with the dun cheeks and corded 
neck had made the biggest audience ever gathered 
together in the world for a dramatic performance. 
. . . After the final curtain there was a moment’s 
intense silence, then; with the realisation that the 
het, voice was still, the frantic applause broke 
orth. 

The repertoire in America consisted of “‘ The Lady 
from the Sea,” ‘‘ Ghosts,’ ‘‘ Cosi Sia,’ ‘La Citta 
Morta,” and ‘“‘ La Porta Chiusa.”’ 

The premiere at New York was followed by even 
greater favour from the public, and was an authentic 
triumph at which it is difficult to assist in this practical 
age. 

The Grand Duse had won her way into the American 
hearts as a queen might have, and for her it had been 
one of the most trying battles of her career. 

The great victory seemed to give her new energy, 
for after the second performance all sense of fear for 





276 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


success left her. She was gayer and even had less 
asthma; and those who were near began to have 
hopes of real recuperation. 

New York as a city still frightened her ; the luxuri- 
ous orgy of Fifth Avenue and Broadway bewildered 
her ; in the midst of the universal Sah she longed 
to hide her face and to humanly cry. 

The great breath of freshness from Central Park 
that came into her apartment at the Majestic Hotel 
had truly, though momentarily, given new life to her 
worn-out organism, filling the exhausted lungs with 
a fleeting vitality. 

The critics continued to write of her with enthusi- 
asm, tireless in their praise of her unique art; and 
she was contented, her only worry being the insistence 
of the Press for interviews. 

She lived a religiously silent life, she who was so 
splendid and generous with money, spending with 
avarice the poor patrimony of strength that was left 
to her. 

She knew only too well that in order to continue 
to make good she must reserve all her force for the 
performance, so it was only possible to support the 
most intimate and friendly conversations in which 
she could be silent at will. 

None of the reporters seemed to be able to under- 
stand how necessary it was to keep the door of her 
apartment locked against the possibility of intruders. 
Nor was it always understood that Mlle. Desirée, 
her companion for twenty-five years, was merely 
doing her duty in refusing admittance to all. 

Before the last performance at the Century Theatre 
a banquet was given, by the Italians residing in 
New York, in Eleonora Duse’s honour, at which the 
entire company was present—but the guest of honour’s 
place was vacant. She was quite well, but—crowds 
and speeches were annoying. The evening passed 


Pe a . Si 
Ts o>, ol 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 277 


alone at her hotel with a book was more to her 
taste. 

The only entertainment that she permitted herself 
was going to two performances of the Russian actors, 
the magnificent company managed by Stanislavsky. 

Morris Gest, himself of Russian descent, presented 
the grand actor to the souveraine Italian actress, and 
the Duse, who had always had a profound admiration 
for the Russian school of acting, not only went to 
the two performances, but insisted upon going on the 
stage to talk with the actors, adding her praise to the 
public’s applause. 

At Boston the reception was warmly enthusiastic ; 
and when the theatre was emptied groups of men and 
women, many with tears in their eyes, gathered in 
the streets all along the way from the theatre to 
the hotel, impeding the passage of the automobile. 
And from every side one heard in French as well as 
English : 

“ Tournez! Tournez! Comeback! Comeback! ”’ 

But the tour of the United States was nearing its 
end. 


““ And the trombones,’ the Duse asked Enif Robert 
one day while they were chatting in her room of the 
hotel at Boston, “‘ what are they doing ? ”’ 

For her the trombones were the actors who sus- 
tained the dignified and serious parts, and who in 
the productions had the side réles corresponding to 
the trombones in an orchestra. 

The Duse’s witticisms in her delightful moments 
of frank gaiety were irresistible ; but when she used 
the ridiculous name of trombones Mme Robert had 
no idea to whom she was referring. 

“You know the trombone? He is there as the 
improvised allegrezza,’’ she explained, “‘ accompanying 
the other instruments by a gesture and musical 





278 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life — 


cadence: the violin, violoncello, harp, bassoon, and 
finally the trombone: pe pe pe pe—a pepe pepe— 
and pepepepepe ! ”’ 

A beautiful parody on certain parts that unfor- 
tunately exist in nearly all plays. 

Still, on the Duse’s part there was no idea of making 
fun of the men who sustained the thankless rdles in her 
company; on the contrary, she always had respect 
for even the least important of her actors; and especi- 
ally for those who were with her then, far from the 
Patria, she had more than a sense of professional duty 
and sisterly artistic affection. 

But woe to him who was not attentive to discipline. 

An old Italian actor, for many years established 
in New York, had in some way managed to be hidden 
among the scenery at almost every performance. 

At the last performance at the Century Theatre, 
forgetting prudence in his enthusiasm, when the Duse 
came off the stage after the second act to go to her 
dressing-room, he precipitated himself upon her, and 
falling to his knees murmured : 

““ Ave, ave, ave!” 

For the Duse the day of a performance was sacred, 
and from the time she entered her dressing-room until 
she was ready to leave the theatre she never permitted 
the slightest distraction from the “stage picture ” ; 
nor during the day while mentally preparing herself 
did she read her letters or telegrams, or receive even 
the most intimate friends. . . . Moreover, there was 
a severe penalty for anyone who greeted her while 
she was in the spirit of the personage—and that 
evening, still wrapped up in the mental desperation of 
the blind Anna in “ La Citta Morta,” the sight of a 
strange man rising before her for a moment stunned 
her, then brought a quick unpleasant realisation of her 
surroundings. 

“ How did you get in here ? ” she asked. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 279 


The tone was not exactly encouraging to the poor 
man, who had already repented of his impulsive daring 
and audacious act of devotion. 

“Tam he pronounced his name in a fearful 
whisper. 

The Duse gave him a withering glance that covered 
him from head to feet, then said dryly as she turned 
quickly towards her dressing-room : 

‘“ Benissimo, continut pure ad esserlo!’’ (Very 
good, continue to be that.) 

The tempest broke forth the moment she was 
within the four white canvas violet-embroidered walls 
that composed the portable room where she changed. 

The secretary and Mlle. Desirée were sent for at 
once, and angrily questioned. Neither of them had 
the slightest idea how the strange man had obtained 
admittance: 

The following day a letter was posted in the theatre 
advising the actors that there would be a fine of one 
thousand lire for anyone who permitted an outsider 
to come on the stage. For several weeks after a 
private detective service was kept up, but the culprit 
was never discovered. 

Exaggerated ? No, not if one realised how integ- 
rally she lived in a part. Many times crossing the 
stage between acts she would pass an actor and look 
directly in his face without recognising him, so com- 
pletely lost in the other personality as to have for- 
gotten her own. 

M. Worth tells how after a triumph at Paris, such 
as he has never seen a French actress achieve, he took 
her to her hotel, where the minute she entered her 
room she threw herself on the bed, sobbing. . . . She 
had come out of the personality and for that night 
at least she could give nothing more of herself to the 
world. . . . Triumph for triumph’s sake meant nothing 
to her ; it was the visible proof that she had not given 








280 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in vain that was her comfort and joy in her 
success, 

Without bidding farewell to Italy, but with the 
bitterness of farewell in her heart, Eleonora Duse had 
departed for America. 

From time to time echoes of her marvellous 
triumphs reached the beloved Patria, the Patria that 
she was never to see again. 

“There is no longer the weight of reality in her 
art,’’ was heard. ‘“‘ She is purely spiritual. Only the 
soul reveals itself. The woman is a myth—art alone 
speaks.” And many, many other similar phrases that 
filled the hearts of the proud Italians with joy and 
made them ready at last to give her all, and more 
than she had asked for, but—too late. 

Never had she been received as she was all over 
the United States. And she could no longer rejoice. 
She did not even see the people about her; and in 
the presence of the listening crowds that filled the 
theatres she was alone. Applause filled her with fear, 
knowing as she did that an excess of emotion could 
break the fine thread that kept her tied to life. The 
augmenting glory terrified her. She was thirsty for 
peace. But for her there was no peace. Renuncia- 
tion was less bitter than victory: and both were 
equally necessary. Day by day, in the midst of the 
deafening applause, she was dying. In the bright 
lights of the theatre she saw only the darkness of her 
night coming nearer and nearer. She loved and 
feared it. She wanted and dreaded it. 

In her younger days she had frequently spoken of 
death, and until the last few months of her life the 
subject was never far from her thoughts; but at the 
end she rarely mentioned it. 

A few months before she died she said to Enif 
Robert, still in her place of faithful friend in time of 
need ; 


bd as ia —— 


+ 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 281 


“Do you know when you wrote and asked me to 
come back that you said something so just that in 
reading it I found comfort for myself? You said: 
“We return to you, signora, renewed, renovated as it 
were by the serenity of simple home life. It is so 
good to live far from the tumult of the theatre that 
we could never have conceived the thought of 
returning, except with you.’ 

“You summed it all up in those few words: 

“renewed by the serenity of home life ; renovated by 
the repose ’"—as I hope I am to-day.” 

She could not live far from the footlights to which 
prenatal influence and the unnatural birth had 
destined her ; but the sublime contradiction of a great- 
ness never before achieved made her long for the 
silence, even in the midst of the seduction of theatrical 
life. 

Without giving any idea as to her reason for so 
doing the Duse asked the members of her company 
individually if they would remain in America, in 
case she should not go back in January, as had been 
planned. The reply never varied : 

“ Yes, signora, I will gladly remain with you here, 
or anywhere.”’ 

For many, many years the Duse had not travelled 
with her company, but the entire tour of the United 
States was made not only in the same train, but in the 
same car with her actors, for, knowing of the unusual 
life-insurance policy that the managers had taken 
out, she seemed to be afraid of being alone. 

“One never knows,” she explained when asked 
how it was that she travelled with the company; “ hav- 
ing that insurance they might try to kill me—-and I 
don’t want to die that way.” 

In fact, the backers of the Morris Gest tour, which 
was to consist of twenty performances, insured the 
tour with Lloyd’s in London for 360,000 dollars as a 





282 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


safeguard against losses due to indisposition of the 
actress, accidents or other causes which might neces- 
sitate a cancellation of dates. The insurance policy 
when taken out was considered unique in the history 
of the theatrical profession and of underwriting practice. 


So when nearing the end of the tour arranged 
by Maurice Gest, the Duse decided that, despite the 
terrible fatigue which kept her continually confined 
to her room, it would be better to prolong her 
stay in the United States than to return to Italy, 
for once in Europe she would be obliged to finish the 
interrupted contract in Vienna. 

It was winter—cold—and at that season of the year 
the sea was apt to be rough and the crossing bad. 

_ Various members of her company had from time 
to time mentioned the fact that they could get another 
manager to book her, if she would consent to remain 
longer in the United States. Word of this had reached 
the great tragedienne. 

In Baltimore she called the entire company together 
to discuss the idea of continuing their tour. 

In her private sitting-room of the hotel she looked 
smilingly from one familiar face to another. 

“Of course,’’ she said, “‘ the women have nothing 
to suggest ? ”’ er Gh 

The women shook their heads. 

‘“ Benassi! ’’ She turned to her leading man. 

“No, signora, I haven’t looked for business.”’ 

“TI suppose not ’’—she nodded wisely—*‘ you ex- 
pected business to look for you. And you, Robert? ” 
She looked at the stalwart grey-haired man who for so” 
many long years had been one of her faithful actors. 
“You were always silent, so naturally will remain 
so. ... And you, Galvani”’ (another of her very 
old actors), “‘ tw cht sat tanto scucito per conto tuo (who 
cannot even look after yourself), cht hat mancato 





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Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 283 


come artista, come pittore, e come marito (who are no 
particular good as actor, painter, or husband), cer- 
tainly will not have any suggestion.” 

But in that she was wrong, for Galvani had a 
manager who was ready and anxious to book her, and 
who would pay her more than Gest had. 

The manager was Fortunato Gallo, an Italian, who 
could get her a contract with the Selwyn Brothers. 

The matter was decided, and Galvani authorised 
to telegraph to Gallo. 

Two days later Fortunato Gallo arrived at* Balti- 
more and was presented to Eleonora Duse. He offered 
her good bookings and three thousand dollars a 
performance. (Maurice Gest had paid her two thou- 
sand five hundred.) Difficult as it was for her to 
even think of travelling, she accepted his proposition, 
and he departed for New York. 

Several days later Mr. Selwyn, accompanied by 
Mr. Gallo, arrived with the contract ready for Madame 
Duse’s signature. 

She received them in her private sitting-room, 
where the very formal-looking document was laid 
out on the table; the contents minutely explained 
by Mr. Selwyn, interpreted by Mr. Gallo. 

‘“ [’m: sure it is quite in order ’’—Mme Duse looked 
from Selwyn to Gallo—‘ but before I sign it I had better 
have it read to me, as I would not want to put my 
name to anything that I could not live up to. Will 
you permit Mr. Gallo to translate it for me?” The 
smile that never failed to send its luminous rays into 
the depths of the hardest of hearts for a second 
brightened her face. 

Mr. Selwyn bowed when Mr. Gallo repeated in 
English what she had said. 

She rose and moved towards the door to the adjoin- 
ing room, followed by Mr. Gallo. 

~“ Just a moment, madam!” With a regal gesture 


284 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Selwyn drew a small gold fountain-pen from his 
breast-pocket, reverently kissed it, then handed it 
to her. “‘I beg you to sign the contract with this 
pen, so that I may always have a souvenir of you.” 

The gesture explained his desire, and unhesitatingly 
she graciously took the pen. 


Mr. Gallo read the contract through. It was found — 


to be in perfect order, and the Duse moved close to a 
small table and sat down to sign it. 

The “‘E” was faint; she shook the pen, tried a 
second time. Evidently there was no ink there, for 
it did not write. She shook it again, with the same 
result. Then she glanced questioningly at Gallo. 

“Try this one!’’ He took an ordinary fountain- 
pen from his pocket, and without any sentimental 
gesture offered it to her. 

“No,” she raised her exquisite hand in a gesture 





of refusal. ‘‘ I cannot use your pen, for 4 
“Why not?’ Evidently Gallo was in a hurry to 
get away. ‘‘ One pen is as good as another, it’s the 


name that counts.” 

‘“ But if I use your pen when Mr. Selwyn believes 
that I have used his, I shall be deliberately acting a 
lie. No, I must make this one write.”’ She shook it 
more violently. 

The result was as before. She hesitated a second, 
then took Mr. Gallo’s pen and clear and unfalteringly 
wrote : 


With the little gold pen in her hand she returned 
to the sitting-room, and graciously returned it to 
Mr. Selwyn. 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 285 


ee 


As he took the pen from her Selwyn bowed and 
for the second time kissed it, then slipped it into his 
breast-pocket. 

“Thank you,’’ he said simply, ‘‘ I shall treasure it 
always because Eleonora Duse used it to sign her con- 
tract with me... perhaps her last contract,’ he 
murmured under his breath. 

“What did he say,” she asked Mr. Gallo anxiously. 

Gallo translated Selwyn’s words. 

“Tell him that ’’—a wistful expression came into 
the marvellous eyes, that no amount of suffering could 
ever dim—“ that .. .” 

Gallo took out his watch, and made a motion to 
Selwyn. .. . Without further explanation the two 
managers took their leave. 

When alone she dropped disconsolately into a 
Cai :-, . 

“He will show the little gold pen to his family 
and friends, exceeding happy that Eleonora Duse 
signed her contract with it; and he will be proud— 
while I—I must remember that I deceived a man 
who was honest with me, and—I—I shall be 
ashamed.” 

And for three nights she was unable to sleep, tor- 
turing herself over the memory of her deception. 


The respect for Mr. Gallo, ex-theatrical agent, 
who had become her business manager, fell irrevocably. 
‘Unfortunately, the poor man was to know it only too 


_. well: as, during the entire tour, he was obliged to 


write even the smallest communication that he had 
_ to make to her, for she refused to speak to him again, 
unable to have faith in a man capable of even so 
insignificant a deception. 

It is not known to any of her intimates if there 
were other minor causes in their relations, before the 
incident of the contract, to make her lose faith in 





286 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Mr. Gallo, but it was proven that, if not the only 
cause, it was certainly the greatest influence against 
him. 

So great was the harmonic resonance of her rest- 
less, watchful sensibility that every gesture, every 
word of others invariably produced an effect, making 
it more than difficult for those who were constantly 
with her not to be guilty of an occasional false note 
in word or action. 

Memo Benassi, who played the stranger in “ The 
Lady from the Sea,” tells how the Duse once told 
him that he must never let her see him in the wings 
during the first and second acts, so that when he 
entered the scene it would seem to her that he had 
truly come from far away, and with that impression 
the past of Ellida would come to her immediately. 

“If I see you beforehand I will not know how to 
feel that sense of bewildered astonishment 40s ewe 
will you be able to frighten me.’ 

Yet with all the truth and reality of her art there 
were times when she permitted herself the luxury of 
stepping for a moment out of the personage that for 
at least twenty-four hours before the performance she 
had been creating, making her frequently insupport- 
able to those near at hand, but to the world the other 
side of the footlights—the divine preceptress of dram- 
atic art. 

American Indians and Negroes were the people that 
interested and aroused her curiosity, and many times 
she was almost childish in her desire to see them. 
The Southern States, she had been told, were where 
the Negroes abounded, and the Indians in the West. 

One of the last performances under the direction 
of Morris Gest was given in Baltimore. . . . The 
curtain had gone up on the first act of “ La Citta 
Morta.” The blind Anna was seated, the faithful 
nurse (Enif Robert) standing beside her. The dialogue 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 287 





was taking place on the far side of the stage, 
when, with half-closed eyes, the Duse peered curiously 
out over the footlights, and without even turning 
towards the nurse she whispered : 

“ Tell me, are they black or white ? ”’ 

The cue came before she could explain what she 
was referring to. When she had ended her scene she 
was again beside the nurse: 

Ve AL 2? 

“I think they are white.’”’ Enif Robert had had 
time to discover what she wanted to know, and to 
look over the house to reassure herself. 

“Oh, what a pity!’’ There was real disappoint- 
ment in the low tone. “I had so hoped to at last 
see a theatre filled with black faces.”’ 

The new contract called for a tour of the Southern 
States—Havana, California ; several middle-west cities 
—Pittsburg, Boston, and New York. 

Up to New Orleans all went well, but from there 
to Havana the voyage was full of anguish. 

She left New Orleans knowing that her daughter 
was dangerously ill and likely to have to undergo 
an operation. The anxiety augmented considerably 
her already over-fatigued condition, and made the 
slow crossing unbearable. 

Frequently Enif Robert went on tiptoe to the door 
of her state-room to make sure that all was well. 
Seeing the anxious loving face the Duse called her 
in. 

“T’m tired,” she said plaintively, “tired of 
being a cardboard mother. I can’t wait to return 
to Asolo, where I hope my daughter, my real daughter, 
will come to spend at least the summer with me. 
. . . How can I play the day after to-morrow—how 
address in the name of stage maternity an imitation 
son, when I know that I owe to the theatre the fact 
that to-day I am far from my Henriette’s bedside ? ” 





288 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


And her anguish multiplied until she was thinking of 
the most desperate conditions imaginable in her 
daughter’s far-away home. 

Fortunately she found a cable at the hotel in 
Havana advising her that the operation was not 
necessary, and a speedy recovery hoped for. 

After the good news she was all smiles, and even 
physical suffering seemed to have ceased. 

To those who devotedly, humbly reproved her for 
unnecessary worry during the voyage she smilingly 
replied : 

MOE course you're right, but I can’t change my 
temperament.” 

At Havana things were not to her liking. She 
thought continually of the return voyage, no doubt 
measuring her strength, feeling more than ever how 
far she was from the little nest at Asolo, where she 
was counting upon passing a long period of peaceful 
repose. 

When the health inspector came aboard the boat 
from Havana, he passed rapidly along the decks, look- 
ing carelessly into eyes, indifferently taking tempera- 
tures. Arrived at the Duse he glanced at her card, 
and without the slightest warning, or before she had 
time to remonstrate, he stuck a thermometer in her 
mouth. She, who always had fever, by a stroke of 
Fate was free from it that day. Had she had even 
one degree she would have been held in quarantine 
for several days at least. 

In February, 1924, the company arrived in Cali- 
fornia, where the balmy air immediately seemed to 
give her new life. Los Angeles and San Francisco 
were the last places where she had at least the appear- 
ance of health. 

At San Francisco, in the beautiful Fairmont Hotel 
overlooking the sea, with renewed strength and energy, 
she dreamed of returning to Asolo—yes, and also of 


Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 289 


working again. Her ardent projects were fresh, miracu- 
lously clear; so clear that they who had the fortune 
to hear them must to-day, more than ever, weep for 
what the world of Art has lost with her. 

Playwrights have lost the unique interpreter, actors 
will never again find the superb guide of human con- 
sciousness, and the public can nevermore witness an 
equal perfection. 

The editor of the Oakland Examiner, published in 
San Francisco, wrote what was the universal opinion 
of her on the second part of her tour : 


“ Nearly a generation has passed since I saw Eleo- 
nora Duse, but she is still the great actress of those 
days, she still joins hearts and minds with a balance 
more perfect than other living artists. 

“She was there, very fragile, almost wraith-like, 
quite white-haired. She was there more than 6,000 
miles away from the theatre where I saw her the last 
time, when the public, in a frenzy, outstretched its 
arms to the ‘ Divina.’ She was there with an aura 
of sadness hovering over her. She sat bending forward 
reading a book, immeasurably removed from the 
gaping crowd. I was aware of the deep lines in her 
face of marmoreal pallor, and I felt the glow of her 
eyes half drooping over the book. Then the play 
began. I became acquainted with the actors: the 
‘son, Guilio ; the husband, Ippolito ; the lover, Decio ; 
a priest and a girl relative. 

“ “La Porta Chiusa,’ by Marco Praga, is not an 
intellectual play. It is flimsy and theatrical in sub- 
stance. It stands only because the Duse gives to 
it the fire and flame of her genius. 

‘“‘ Duse is there behind the piano. She spoke the 
first words, and through them goes the first throb of 
the drama. Her enunciation is vibrantly clear; she 
has mastered the art of throwing a whisper to the 

| - 





290 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


gallery. The first act is pale and anemic. The lines 
of it are simple, without subtlety. But the climax is 
in the second act, when the son lets his natural father 
and mother know that he knows the secret of his birth, 
and that it is absolutely necessary that he go. It isa 
scene of really poignant power. That realisation is a 
blow to her. Her whole frame is shot through with terror, 
with the anguish of the mother and of the peccatrice. 

‘““ She sinks into a chair and seems to want to dis- 
appear. She hides her face from her son; savagely 
she hides it first in her arms, and after in her palms, 
and later on his chest. Her hands, those famous 
speaking hands, begin to talk again. Their gestures 
are the gestures of resignation and despairing 
futility. Her hands are rising and falling with the 
voice that is sad. They have sometimes a flashing 
arc of gesture, without a break, one mood changing 
gracefully into another. She has accepted all with 
submission. Now she smiles. She has a smile of 
tenderness. The son waits. She still can do some- 
thing forhim. He shall go on his expedition. 

“The drama ends with a word that the Duse 
repeats twice: ‘Sola!’ (Alone!) Twice the bi-syllabic 
word comes from her pale lips ; first with a deep tone, 
as if she is searching the inner roots of her anguish, 
of her desolation, and then, raising her eyes to heaven 
as if to find refuge and peace in the submission of her 
destiny, she repeats the word with a tone clear and 
high but slightly glazed by her repressed tears. ‘ Sola!” 
she repeats, and a heroic beauty shines in her face. 
In that word she puts all herself. It is a cry of loneli- 
ness, wonder and age-old sadness, a cry that no one 
who watched her last night will forget. - 

‘The fuoco sacro of the old days is still there, in 
that frail body, in that soul enriched by the years ; it 
is still burning under those lines that time and care 
have traced on her. The years have not quenched it. 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 291 





' The performance was of absolute symmetry. A 
performance of form and colour in which every acces- 
sory is blended so completely that the whole appears 
inevitable. The plaintively melodious voice, the out- 
stretched arms, the simplicity of movement, the utter 
subordination of the actress to the part, the stillness 
with which she could imbue the quieter pauses in the 
emotion, the most beautiful gestures—-gestures of 
plastic grace—these are the things that mark the 
Duse apart from others. 

“She unites in her reading, in every gesture, 
the tone of the highest distinction with the utmost 
simplicity. Her method is realistic. But she adds 
Italian grace. Her inimitable grace. Her acting is 
perfect even as the terzina of Dante is perfect.’’ 


Continuing her studying and reading, the Duse had, 
besides her personal luggage, two trunks full of books, 
most of them collected along the way. 

While at the Fairmont Hotel Enif Robert took her 
the latest Italian novels that she had bought in San 
Francisco. One was by Rosso San Secondo, called: 
“The Woman Who Can Understand—-Understands.”’ 
. . . several hours later the Duse sent for Mme Robert. 
She had already read the book, which she had 
thoroughly enjoyed, and began at once a minute and 
eloquent discussion of it; going most profoundly into 
the subject which the author had set forth... 
From that she turned to women in general, and their 
true place in the world. 

“Tf women, instead of trying to conquer on the 
field, urged on by war-like instincts, pushing themselves 
into business, journalism, and even commerce, would 
remember that independence is grand, but that mixing 
in affairs makes them eventually lose the gentleness 
and sweetness that is the one thing given them to 
hold man’s devotion.” . 

r 











292 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 





Yet, despite this expression of an inner sentiment, 
she was a keen believer in women’s rights, and a firm 
friend to her sisters in distress, helping all in her 
power to relieve the conditions of those who were 
totally unsuccessful. 

She spoke of marriage as “‘ a fundamental element 
of human society, the defects of which the tumultuous 
life of to-day has made more manifest and serious. 

“It 1s necessary to understand. 

‘““ Much, much sweetness must be used to annihilate 
the daily indifference. To sweetness must be added 
the knowledge of how to suffer with strength of soul 
renewed each day for the combat. And if there is a 
weak spot in the armour, pad it with endurance.” 

To the unhappy men or women who confided in 
her she explained with the charm that left no doubt 
in the listener’s mind as to her being right : 

“The daily prose of married life is the slow ruin 
of even the grandest love. . . . One cannot live without 
poetry.” 

The tepid days in California passed all too quickly. 

With the passing of the days her desire to stay on 
in San Francisco increased, for it seemed that a strange 
presentiment warned her that the cold of the North, 
to which she must return, would conquer her. 

“At least let me stay in the good warm sun of 
the grand Pacific all of the month of April,’”’ she said 
more than once, with sweet pleading in her voice, sub- 
mission in her eyes. ‘I am so afraid of the cold.” 

Still it was not possible to grant her plea. The 
itinerary had been too precisely and unalterably 
arranged for Mr. Gallo to chance postponing any of 
the dates. 

So with a sad heart the tired Nomad set out on the 
journey that was to take her to the end of her glorious 
and tormented way. | 

Crossin the arid desert of Arizona, under the 








RE eCLOSEDALDOOR: 





gh which 
POstOetne 


The Porziuncola Gate, throu 


Eleonora Duse passed to 


p. 292. 


Capponcina. 


a 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 293 


burning rays of the sun, the Duse again suffered atroci- 
ously from the suffocating heat and the fine sand that, 
despite the double windows of the sleeping-car, pene- 
trated her compartment. 

Certainly nothing could have been more suicidal 
for the worn-out lungs. 

There were hours and hours of real martyrdom for 
her, when from time to time she asked wearily: 

“FE fino? E finito ?”’ (Has it ended ?) 

And each time she asked the question the kind, 
sad eyes were more anxious. 

At last the Robert, who had passed the compart- 
ment in which the “signora’”’ lay, propped up by 
many pillows, at least a thousand times, ran to her, 
crying enthusiastically : 

“Signora! Signora! the suffocating heat has 
ended, there will be no more dust; I’ve seen snow. 
Snow, signora ! ”’ 

In fact there had been particles of white in the 
air against the direction of the train that to anxious 
eyes were mistaken for snow. 

“Oh, already ? ”’ 

With a quick movement the Duse raised the window- 
shade, with a violent gesture immediately lowering 
it again, and turning, she looked fixedly for a moment 
at the little woman standing fearfully before her. 

Oh, to have seen her face! First the radiant hope, 
then a new inexplicable anguish. 

“Oh, there is no snow?’”’ The pain was so real 
on the beloved face that the Robert, moved beyond 
herself, was unable to find words of comfort. “ It 
seemed to me .. . Perhaps there was white in the 
air,’ she murmured. ‘ I—I don’t quite know.”’ 

What were those marvellous eyes saying? There 
was snow--yes; and there was bitter cold also in 
that rapid train running, running desperately, towards 
Death—towards Death. 





294 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Besides the oxygen which she inhaled frequently, 
even when relatively well, and which, as she said, 
was her “ one luxury,’’ she also had a preference for 
eucalyptus, inhaling the perfume of the little tropical 
fruit gathered under the trees in California. 

She had tried everything to quiet the asthma, yet 
with the most complicated respiratory cures at hand 
she was always willing e try any simple new remedy 
suggested to her. 

No one ever had more courage than the Duse 
in fighting for health. She wanted to overcome her 
malady, and all of her indomitable will was back of 
the force that she used. . . . She believed that she 
could make herself well—-and she would. 

Believing in the power of her will, with a stoic 
smile she supported the cough that for years had more 
or less racked her. 

For long, long years she had resisted, but on the 
last tap of the journey—the fatal Pittsburg—she was 
to succumb in the fight. 


Always delicate as to her taste in food, during the 
last months in America she travelled with a _ port- 
able invalid’s kitchen, enclosed in a large basket chest, 
and on the train nearly all of her meals were prepared 
by Mlle. Desirée and her maid ; the cooking done on a 
tiny alcohol stove. © 

Her principal foods were light nourishing soups, 
boiled chicken, and fruit jellies—-generally orange. 

In hotels, from the time Mlle. Desirée joined the 
Duse until the end, one of her most difficult tasks was 
arranging with the chef for a substantial and delicately 
tempting meal for the grand actress. 

During the last two or three years she took cognac 
or champagne as a last resource against physical fatigue. 
.. . At New York a friend sent her a case of cham- 
pagne (thirty-six bottles) which was packed in a special 








Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 295 





box, for travelling, that in no way resembled any- 
thing containing alcoholics. A glass of champagne 
gave a shock to the nervous system, and she always 
took one before going to the theatre, and at the very 
end cognac was used to keep her up during the 
performance. 


Indianapolis—Detroit—Pittsburg—-Cleveland. 

_ Four cities in each of which she was to have given 
but one performance. 

April came in cold and stormy all over the Western 
and Eastern States. At Indianapolis the performance 
began well, but the Duse was more than usually 
nervous. She played with an effort—-she, who on the 
stage, even in the most violently agitated moments 
of ill-health, had never let her suffering be 
seen. i 

In fact, many times, having seen her a few minutes 
before the curtain, with an expression of utter fatigue, 
inhaling oxygen, one more than marvelled to see her 
enter with virile freshness of walk and gesture, trans- 
formed by an invisible force into an unforgettable 
vision—-the vision that thousands of people will 
always remember, and that no other perfection in 
Art can ever cancel. 

Detroit. 

Cold, uncomfortable—her one desire to leave, to 
leave, to leave! 

It was necessary to make haste. As though pursued 
by the hope of being able to reach Italy, Asolo—the 
refuge longed for—she insisted upon haste. 

“ Presto, presto, fighiolt !”’ (Hurry, hurry, children !) 
was what she invoked during the performance. “‘ Hurry 
the lines, finish the performance, leave this city, leave 
the next and the next—get to the end of the contract.”’ 

Away! Away! 

At times it seemed almost a physical impatience 








296 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


that urged her on, and even when sitting down she 
nervously tapped her foot to mark time. 
. Where ? 

Escape ... From what! 

At Pittsburg she was to play at the Syria Mosque, 
an enormous edifice with two galleries, and a seating 
capacity of 3,850 persons. The ground floor is 206 ft. 
wide and 104 ft. long, the stage roo ft. wide and 36 ft. 
long. There is a box set, a smaller stage that drops 
on the big one and which is used for dramatic perform- 
ances, but when this small stage is in place there 
are very wide corridors on either side through which 
draughts pass freely: a theatre perfectly adapted for 
Eleonora Duse. 

And at Pittsburg the mortal blow came. On the dark, 
murky evening of April 5th, when going to the theatre 
at the hour of the performance, through the chauffeur’s 
fatal mistake she was obliged to wait over five minutes 
in the pouring rain—before a closed door. 

Posters. were all over the city, and the placard 
before the Syria Mosque read : 


ELEONORA DUSE, 
AND HER COMPANY FROM ROME, IN 
‘““THE CLOSED Door.” 


The old legendary habit of Assisi comes to my 
mind again, making the closed door before which 
Eleonora Duse waited strangely symbolical. 

In vain the secretary and the property man of 
the company tried to protect her from the rain and 
furious icy wind, while others ran to have the door 
opened from the inside. 

She finally entered trembling; even the heavy 
opossum coat which she wore and the automobile 
cover had not been enough to keep her warm. She was 
chilled to the bone, her clothes damp and her feet wet. 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 297 








In the dressing-room she complained of feeling ill, 
but insisted upon playing just the same, urging her 
vagazzi to hurry. Well and good, but considering the 
conscientious severity with which she regarded her art, 
her work, the hurry was not a good prognostication. 

Despite her determination that evening she did 
not succeed in entirely hiding her suffering. In the 
first act, in which Bianca Querceta has very little 
to do, she was distracted, and only admirable in her 
suave abandon. 

She revived somewhat in the second act, in the 
scene that she lived; hiding her face from her son’s 
scorn, and in self-defence for her sin of the past. 

She was grand, perfect as always in the two final 
“ Sola—sola!’’ How strangely significant were the 
last words that she pronounced on the stage ! 

In fact, “‘ Sola,’ for no other will ever be what she 
was. “Sola” in Art, uniquely touched by the breath 
of the gods. “ Sola ’”’ in her last agony. 

Scarcely able to stand, again and again she replied 
to the mad applause. 

The public crowded about the orchestra, pushing 
to the footlights, calling and calling for her, until at 
last she returned, standing between the curtains, sup- 
porting herself against an unseen chair, smiling and 
bowing graciously ; when back in the wings she mur- 
mured : | 

“ Basta, non ne posso pui!”’ (Enough, I can resist 
no more !) | 

Almost as though the presentiment that she would 
never again enter a theatre was before her, she lingered 
longer than usual in the dressing-room ; sitting silently, 
resting her head on the tired hand. The presentiment 
- seemed to grow upon her that, going out of the theatre 
that evening, she was leaving her Kingdom forever. 

The following day she had a high fever. 

For a week the malady ran its course, from 





298 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


influenza developing into pneumonia, the fever always 
higher, the suffering intense. 

The Cleveland date was postponed, but, the manager 
not believing the statement issued by Dr. Barone, the 


attending physician, a doctor was sent from Cleveland 


to examine the patient. 

The day he arrived the Duse was feeling better, 
and made an attempt to get up, collapsing almost 
immediately; so that when the Cleveland doctor 
insisted upon being admitted to her room, he found 
her in bed. 

She refused to permit him to examine her, saying : 

‘“‘ Tf he is a doctor, one look at me will suffice.”’ 

He returned to Cleveland satisfied that it would be 
impossible for her to act there or anywhere again. 

Thursday before Easter several of her actors saw 
her for a few minutes, most of them encouraged by the 
mere fact of her having asked for the visits. 

““Come and sit beside me for five minutes,’ she 
said to the faithful Enif Robert, who on tiptoe entered 
her room at the Schenley Hotel. “I have been very, 
very ul, and have taken so much quinine that I am 
a little deaf. Come very near, and speak loud.” 

She became drowsy immediately, and when she 
roused again she said: 

“What are all you exiles doing in this forced 
repose ? And it’s nearly Easter. ... But we will 
leave . . . we will leave very soon. ... I want to 
go back to Asolo.” 

She moved restlessly in bed, mussing the adorable 
silver-white hair, that seemed to suffer also in her 
anguish. , 

The Robert got up and, reaching over, arranged the 
stray locks. A weak, loving smile, carrying mortal 
fatigue, passed over the pale face as her thanks. 

Again she became drowsily unconscious, and 
again she roused herself ; pushing back the pillows, 


r, 











Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 299 


she sat up, and in a clear, firm voice said a verse 
in Roman dialect : 
“ E dopo er serra serra, 
Riecchece pe’ terra.”’ 

She meant to signify to the Robert, who had been 
with her the winter before, during her illness at 
Milan, that she was merely ill agazn. 

“Come back to-morrow,’ she said when the visit 
had come to an end. But the following day no one 
was permitted to enter the room, where the doctor 
had ordered absolute silence. 

During all of Good Friday she was semi-conscious. 

And on Easter even, when the church bells were 
ringing the glorious tidings of the Resurrection, she 
instead was approaching the Great Unknown. 

In every conscious moment the asthma tormented 
her. 

With a gesture of inimtable grace, that marvel- 
lous grace all her own that suffering had rendered 
distressing, she extended a hand now to one, now 
to the other, of the two faithful women who for two 
weeks, night and day, had been near to help and 
care for her. 

The periods of unconsciousness seemed to renew 
her force to further resistance. Reawakening, she was 
lucid and her voice normal, and more than once she 
looked fixedly at the two tireless ones: Mlle. Desirée 

and Maria Ovagadro. 
| On Easter morning she had the last thought for her 
actors. 

She wanted them all near her on that great feast 
day, so that they would feel less lonely far from the 
Patria and their families. 

That half hour when she talked of them was the 
respite from suffering that Death generally concedes— 
the tranquillity just before the end. She even talked 
of getting well, hurrying the preparations for departure 








300 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


—resigned at last to breaking the contract—but cer- 
tainly the thought that in only a few hours she would 
be starting off on a different journey was far from her. 

The lungs had been calmed, the only suffering 
was from the inexorable asthma. 

The visit from the actors was not possible, for 
when they arrived, having been advised by telephone, 
the signora was again drowsily unconscious. 

Sad, but never dreaming of the terrible catastrophe 
that was to come upon them, they returned to their 
various hotels. Only one among them had a pre- 
monition that all was not well, and until long after 
midnight lay awake, feeling that she should have 
remained at the Schenley in case the “ signora ’’ asked 
for her. As an actress she had never been other than 
a willing super, but she had known intimately the 
woman Eleonora Duse, an honour that perhaps no 
other actress who ever played with her had had. 

Between periods of clearest consciousness and 
drowsiness the long, sad hours of Easter Day passed. 

Twice she asked for her glasses to read the letters 
and telegrams that were piled in a basket in_ the 
adjoining room. After glancing over a few she again 
fell into unconsciousness. 

Towards six o’clock she asked once more for her 
actors. Mlle. Desirée told her that they had come and 
gone, leaving flowers and their good wishes. 

The last telegram that she read was from a dear 
friend in London, who, having read in the papers of 
her illness, asked if she should come to America to 
comfort her. 

‘No, no—-I’m better. She must not think of taking 
the long trip-—I will see her in London. . . soon.” 

At eight o’clock the doctor gave her an injection 
of camphorated oil, awaiting the result with anxiety. 

She who had been seriously ill for twenty years, 
fighting willingly with all her strength to overcome 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 301 


—__ 








disease, rebelled at the injection. “Enough of these 
cures—I don’t want an injection.” 

And in a voice in which the somnolence was already 
heard she begged: ‘‘ No . . . to-morrow.’ 

Unconsciousness almost immediately followed the 
injection. The doctor announced to the poor fright- 
ened women that there was very little hope of her 
living through the night. 

At one o'clock on Monday morning, April 2tst, 
she stirred, raised herself in bed, and with wide-open 
eyes looked at the two devoted women petrified by 
mute anguish, and asked if it was yet dawn. 

“ At dawn we must leave.”’ 
| She asked if the champagne had been packed, and, 

if it had not, the man must be sent for at once to nail 
up the case. She wanted to drink, and to have the 
window opened wide on the cold, dark night of the 
sleeping Pittsburg, where the only sound was the 
rumbling of the monstrous machines in the huge far- 
awav factories. 

The icy breath of the night—or was it the Grim 
Monster-—in a second filled the quiet room as with a 
strange, uncanny presence. The window was closed, 
but too late, for like a bat attracted by the dim light 
near the bed the Reaper had entered. 

At 2.30 a.m. exactly she again opened her eyes, 
once more raised herself on the pillows, looked fixedly 
from one to the other trembling woman, made a gesture 
of resignation, crossing the divine hands above her 
head and letting them fall heavily on her lap. 

Her head dropped forward resting on Mlle. Desirée’s | 
shoulder, the eyes closed . 

For always. 


For six days and six nights, dressed all in white, 
she lay among the white roses in a mortuary chapel 
at Pittsburg. 


302 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


Her actors watched by turn, kneeling at the foot 
of the couch between the candles, where in an attitude 
of calm peace their “ signora ”’ slept. 

Day and night she was watched over by those 
faithful loving men and women, never a minute 
through all the long hours alone. 


Upon receipt of a telegram from Italy, Prince 
Gelasio Caetani, the Ambassador, in the name of the 
Italian Government, went to Pittsburg to pay his 
country’s tribute to the Grand Actress, and to arrange 
for the funeral and the long return voyage. 

Through the night, travelling from Pittsburg to 
New York, they —the men of the company—watched 
beside the casket, and afterwards in the church at 
New York, 


When Eleonora Duse’s death was announced 


Gabriele d’Annunzio telegraphed from Gardone 
Rivera, Lake Gardo, to Mussolini : 


‘“ The tragic destiny of Eleonora Duse could not be 
accomplished more tragically. Far from Italy the 
most Italian of hearts has died. I ask that the adored 


body be returned to Italy at the Government’s ex- | 


pense. I am certain that my pain is the pain of all 
Italians. Listen to my prayer, and answer.”’ 


To which the Italian Prime Minister replied : 


“The fate of Eleonora Duse, to whom a year ago 
I offered an appanage so that the sublime actress would 
not have to leave Italy, has profoundly grieved me. 
As soon as her tragic end was known I telegraphed to 


. 
4 
: 
7 

4 


our Ambassador at Washington to go to Pittsburg | 


immediately to arrange for the transport of the body, 
which will be at the Government’s expense.’ 


The British, American, French, German and Aus- 


trian Press wrote articles of condolence ; every Italian 








ELEONORA DUuUSE’S LAST RESTING-PLACE. 
Asolo, facing Monte Grappa. 


p. 302 











_ Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 303 


writer of note gave the public a few words regarding 
her life ; hundreds of telegrams from all over the world 
were sent to the management. Every theatre in 
Italy remained dark for one evening as a sign of 
mourning; and many companies dressed in half 
mourning from the time the notice of her death was 
received until the body reached Asolo. 

The mortal remains of Eleonora Duse, eoarmamnrticd 
by the entire company, arrived at New York on Sunday 
afternoon, April 27th, and were met at the station 
by the Italian Consul, a representative of the city of 
New York, and several friends. 

In the most private form possible the body was 
taken to the Dominican Church at 66th Street and 
Lexington Avenue, where on Monday, Tuesday, and 
Wednesday the casket, almost buried in flowers, lay 
in state. There were flowers sent from all parts 
of Europe—from New York actresses, society women, 
and from thousands and thousands of Italians in 
every walk of life, scattered all over the United States. 

On Thursday morning, May Ist, at 10 o’clock, the 
Funeral Mass was celebrated. ... Martinelli, the 
Italian tenor, sang, and a chorus of children invoked 
peace for the soul of the Grand Departed. 

From the church, through 66th Street, up Fifth 
Avenue to 72nd Street, crossing Central Park to the 
Mall, the hearse was led by mounted police followed 
by the Italian Ambassador, the company, and several 
thousand admirers. At the Mall the procession halted, 
resting for five minutes in absolute silence: the men 
bareheaded, many kneeling. . . . Leaving Central Park 
by a west gate, they proceeded ‘directly to the pier of 
the transatlantic line where the Duilio was anchored. 

Covering the top of the casket there was one 
magnificent wreath : 


VICTOR EMANUEL TO ELEONORA DUSE. 





ae 


304 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


On the right side a wreath from the Italian Govern- 
ment, and on the left one from her daughter; all the 
other flowers were piled in an automobile directly 
back of the hearse. 


When it was arranged that the Duilio was to 
transport the remains of Eleonora Duse to Italy, 
the manager of La Navigazione Generale Italiana 
announced that it would be impossible to book the 
actors on the same steamer, as every first-class cabin 
was sold. All of the members of the company pro- 
tested : they had stuck faithfully to their “ Signora,” 
and not for any reason would they consent to abandon 
her on her last voyage. It made no difference what 
discomforts they might have to endure, they would 
travel with her. . . . If there was nothing in the first- 
' class-they would go in the second, if the second was 
complete they would bunk in the steerage. No 
Government plan, nothing, was going to take the 
“ Signora ’’ from America without them to watch over 
her. 

Finally arrangements were made, and the actors, 
managers, companion and maid were given sleeping 
accommodation in second-class cabins on board the 
Duilio. Each day during the long crossing they were 
permitted to descend to the steerage to be near for 
a few minutes the third-class cabin transformed into 
a mortuary chapel in which their beloved Teacher, 
Companion, Friend—their ‘“‘Signora’’—among the 
flowers and spluttering candles lay at rest. 

The emotion was very great at Naples when, towards 


the end of a cloudless day, the big ocean liner, a grey 


speck on the horizon, was sighted. 

Representatives from the foreign Sociéty of Authors, 
high Government officials, many friends, and a host of 
the curious were gathered on the docks awaiting the 
arrival of the ‘‘ Grandissima.”’ 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 305 


When at length the Duwilio docked at the Immaco- 
letta Nuova the obstreperous, noisy Neopolitan crowd 
became silent, looking with something like fear at 
the bow of the ship. There on the bridge, wrapped in 
her country’s flag, the lone wanderer, returned from 
her last long voyage, slept, hidden forever from human 
view in the American triple casket. . . . The draped 
coffin suggested a ciborium, emanating the peace that 
she had asked of the earth while offering kindness to 
the unfortunates who crossed her pathway. 

After a last benediction the casket was raised high, 
swung dizzily in mid-air, then slowly lowered in the 
midst of the silent crowd. The hour of supreme offer- 
ing had come, and they consigned her to the Patria 
in a feast of sunshine and blue sky; but to many of 
them the splendour and warmth seemed _ useless, 
because the “Signora’’ was dead—dead from the 
cold, in the murky fogs of Pittsburg. 

The grand Funeral Mass, Italy’s last homage to her, 
was said in the beautiful church of Santa Maria degli 
Angeli, at Rome. The old church seen from the doors 
presented the effect of a single grand altar. On an 
escutcheon over the doors were the beautiful words 
of Silvio d’Amico : 

“Rome and the Mother Italy implore in the 
hour of return from her last pilgrimage the Peace 
of God for the anguished soul of Eleonora Duse.” 


During the divine service and the early hours of 

the afternoon, thousands of persons passed in line 
through the transepts, stopping to pray at the foot 
of the catafalque illumined by many candles, and 
guarded by four women in deepest mourning. 
The flowers, brought by all those who had even 
remotely known her, rested against the side walls and 
columns. . The choruses of Palestrina and Perosi 
were very beautifully rendered. 





306 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


The real mourning, such as she would have desired, 
was at Asolo, the little mountain village where she 
had found repose and almost happiness, and was 
the farewell that those who loved her will always 
remember. 

At every station where the train stopped from Rome 
to Treviso, despite the advanced hour of the night, 
actors, writers, the public, were all there crowded 
on the platform to deposit flowers and to bow before 
the venerated casket. ... The silence of profound 
emotion was felt all along the line, and in those dense 
crowds there were few whose eyes were not dimmed 
by tears. | 

Her great love for her country, her still greater 
love for humanity, was understood at last. 

Automobiles were waiting at Montabelluna to take 
the retinue to Asolo. The grand docks that seemed 
to unite the points of the Universe were no more ; 
nor the great city with its unknown multitudes, that 
absorb and deaden all tenderness : there everything was 
different, the open country, cut in between the moun- 
tains, stretched away for miles and miles, the fresh 
early summer air blew in soft caressing breaths over the - 
silent people in the automobiles following the hearse 
up the hill. 

From every window flags tied with crépe hung 
limply in the glorious sunlight ; and, despite the voice- 
less silence of the village, there was the impression of 
some mystic feast. On the walls notices were posted : 
Lutio cittadino. (General mourning.) 

The mountain town was lifeless—for there, in the 
midst of the long procession winding its weary way 
to the church a mile distant, lay the soul of it. 

First came the village children, then five men in 
breeches and wigs, one of them on horseback, according 
to an old tradition ; carabinieri, fascisti, clergy ; girls 
and boys carrying flags and wreaths of flowers; the 





Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 307 


hearse drawn by six horses with black caparisons ; then 
the family, the company, friends and the entire burg, 
besides many who had come from nearby villages. . . . 
Passing the Duse’s house—the lovely old Morison 
palace with its pink stone walls, beautiful Renaissance 
windows and green doors, the arcade and niche where 
before the tiny Madonna a lone candle burns night 
and day—there was a momentary halt ; at the garden 
gate an old peasant woman, the caretaker, watched— 
awaiting the return of her beloved mistress. 

Before the little church on the green hillside the 
last farewells were rendered her. Representatives of 
the Italian Government, Dario Niccodemi (President 
of the Italian Authors’ Society), Edouard Schneider 
(for the French authors and actors), the Mayor of Asolo, 
an old German actor, and a young man from Chioggia, 
spoke. Words, mere words, were inadequate to express 
the grief, but the communion of souls was there ; and 
I think that she who hated speeches and ceremonies 
must have pardoned those who spoke so reverently 
beside her casket, understanding that they were trying 
in a small way to express the world’s great love for 
her. | | a 
The day after the official farewells the Intimate 
Mass was celebrated at St. Anne’s Church. Her 
daughter, a few familiar friends, the company, and 
~women from the mountains were the only ones present. 
Women who had never assisted at her triumphs, who 
knew her only as the lady of kindness and love, their 
grand comforter in hours of need and desolation. 

The long Mass ended, the last benediction said, 
stalwart men of the village lifted the heavy bronze 
casket to their shoulders, and slowly, proudly, walked 
forward through the narrow alley of the cemetery, 
lined by the already faded wreaths of flowers, their 
touching epigrammed ribbons like trophies of a glorious 
battle, to the hillside and the open grave ; the priest 


j 





308 Eleonora Duse: The Story of Her Life 


in his white robes, the crucifer and acolytes leading — 
the way. In the intense silence of the mountains, 
broken only by an occasional sob, the casket was 
lowered to the ground. 


“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; in 
sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to Eternal 
Life...’’ All the anguish of suffering past, no longer 
the unanswerable question ‘‘ Why? ’’; no more heart- 
aches for the pain of others, never again misunderstood ; 
finally ‘Sola ’’ in the silence that she had so truly 
loved, in the place where she had longed to be: 
facing the high chain of mountains, with now and 
then a speck of white smoke rising from some farm- 
house in the valley; to the east the Castle of Asolo, 
and below on the hillside groups of houses, and there, 
under the immobile limpid Italian sky, the strange 
haunting peace of infinite space. 

And there her devoted, loving figliol left 
her. 

“Sola,’’ spiritually in the hearts of all, the divine 
body hidden away in a triple casket, under a simple 
marble slab hewn from the sacro moniagna, in the 
beautiful little cemetery of St. Anne, at Asolo, over- 
looking the magnificent Grappa, Eleonora Duse, 
born Italian, child of the theatre, the world’s greatest 
tragedienne, the “‘Signora’’ who knew no peace, 
woman of pure ‘heart and purer soul, sleeps—eternally. 


THE END 


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